The Jedi in Brennan's Head
by bloodwrites
Summary: A mad scientist obsessed with making Brennan his test subject kidnaps our favorite forensic anthropologist and invades her subconscious. Can Booth save her before it's too late? BB all the way, M for sexual situations in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Booth's cell rang at 3am that Sunday morning – definitely not a good sign. He woke from a dream he couldn't quite remember, but based on the way Seeley Jr. was standing at attention, it had been a pretty good one. It was Cam's voice on the line when he answered, and he fought the urge to hang up.

"We need you in here – immediately."

He closed his eyes. "Isn't it Sunday? And the middle of the night? Check my contract – I'm pretty sure I don't work either one of those."

"You don't have a contract, and I don't have time to argue. I need you to pick up Brennan. Don't pass go, don't stop to smell the roses. Just get her and bring her here."

His irritation vanished when he recognized the urgency in Cam's tone. "Why – what the hell's going on?"

There was a pause on the line, and he felt that familiar dread crawl his spine – the feeling he always got when Bones might be in trouble. After a second or two, Cam finally answered.

"Someone Brennan put away a few years ago just escaped – it was before my time, but apparently he's made a number of threats over the years. I've already got two guards outside her building, but I assumed you'd want to bring her in yourself."

He didn't press for more details, instead pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and strapped on his gun as he was heading out the door, still on the phone. "Well, you got that one right. How long's he been out, and where was he coming from?"

"He was in Sing Sing, maximum security. No one's exactly sure how he got out. Or when – but he was there for lights out Friday night."

"And no one's seen him since?"

He locked his door, taking a second to gather his senses once he was outside.

"No. Two guards were found dead in his cell the next morning – no one heard anything."

"Or if they did hear, they're sure as hell not talking," Booth guessed. Outside in the chill of a cool October night, he took a second to get his bearings before unlocking his car and getting in.

"All right – I'm on my way now. What'd you tell Bones?"

"I didn't tell her why she was coming in – just that there was a case she was needed on. And that you were coming for her." She paused again. "Seeley, from everything I've read about this guy, he really had it in for her. I'll feel a lot better when you're both here."

Booth closed his eyes, offering up a little prayer to the night sky as he started the car. "Don't worry – I'll bring her in. It'll be fine."

He pulled into the street with his head already in that cold, silent place that meant something serious was going down. Once he got to Brennan's neighborhood, he slowed down a block from her apartment, then killed his headlights when he was on her street. Everything was quiet; he spotted the cops Cam had sent immediately – which meant if this whack job was already here, he'd probably spotted them, too. Booth parked directly in front of the building, and took a second to feel out the situation before he headed inside.

A drunk came 'round the corner a little too fast, muttering to himself, and there was a hair of a second there when Booth almost reached for his gun. When the bum was safely tottering back down the street, the former sniper forced himself to take a breath. This was a job, he reminded himself. He'd been doing it for years – it didn't matter who he was protecting, just that he did his job. They'd be fine.

He got out of the car, noting that the lights were on in Bones' apartment. He let himself into the building using the key Bones had given him, and nodded a quick hello to Manny, the security guard in the front lobby.

"On the clock already, Agent Booth?" the older man asked.

Booth smiled, relieved to return to normalcy – see, everything was fine. Maybe he was overreacting.

"The dead never sleep, Manny," he quipped. That was a good one, he'd have to remember it. "How're the kids?"

"Always growing – if it's not shoes it's jeans, and if it's not jeans it's jackets. They always need somethin'. How's your boy?"

Booth paused at the front desk, still taking note of exits, stairs, elevator. The lobby was empty except for him and Manny – a good thing, because he might've had to shoot Bones himself if she'd met him downstairs. He'd told her a long time ago to stay put when he came to get her, especially this late at night. He liked to meet her right at her apartment – too many years on the job watching people get shot on their front doorstep. Too many years as the guy doing the shooting. Booth took another glance around. Instead of answering Manny's question, he lowered his voice and asked one of his own.

"Listen, Manny, you haven't seen anything weird tonight, have you? Any strangers in the building, anything like that?"

The man hesitated – which meant he had, but didn't want to get in trouble for whatever his reaction had or hadn't been.

"Anybody at all?" Booth prompted. Finally, the guard shrugged.

"Not really – I mean, it's Saturday night, so… There was a party in 311, a few people I didn't know there. And 212 – hot tamale, that girl – always has a new guy by the weekend."

"And 311 – everyone there signed in?"

Manny looked uncertain, but then Booth's cell phone rang – which pretty much shot his interrogation to hell. He checked the caller ID and smiled – just a little – as he answered.

"Bones! I'm on my way up the stairs now."

"Why don't you ever take the elevator?" She was cranky, he could tell by that little edge to her voice. He kind of loved it when she was cranky – his smile inched a little closer to a grin, despite everything.

"I do take the elevator – all the time. Just not on big cases in the middle of the night." He gave a little half salute to Manny, who saluted right back at him, and headed for the stairs while he continued talking. "Elevators can malfunction, get shut down, catch on fire… I take the stairs and I've got an exit on every floor, guaranteed." He kept talking as he jogged up the stairs, enjoying the movement.

"You think someone's going to set fire to my elevator at three-thirty on a Sunday morning?" Bones asked dryly. He could picture her eye roll, that funny way one side of her lip quirked up when she was annoyed.

"No, Bones, I don't – God. But I can't *guarantee* that they're not, now, can I? And as long as you're on my watch – "

He finally reached the top floor, and took a second to get his breath before he left the stairwell.

"You act like you're my bodyguard or something – you're not, you know."

He checked up and down the corridor – nothing. "Geez, Bones – what bug crawled up your butt?"

He reached her door with the phone still at his ear, and didn't have a chance to knock before it opened.

"I don't know what that means," she said, hanging up the phone once they were face to face. She was wearing jeans and a frilly brownish shirt he'd always liked – not that he didn't like most everything she wore, but this one was really pretty (and, he had to admit, he liked that it was kind of low cut. He wasn't a sleaze, but he was still a guy.) Bones didn't seem to pay any attention to what he was wearing, however, continuing with their conversation like he'd been right there all along. "I'm tired, and I'd planned on sleeping in tomorrow and then spending the day on an Aztec reconstruction I've been trying to get to for months."

She sighed. "Besides, you're late."

"Late – how can I be late? Half an hour ago I'm in my bed, having a *pretty* good dream – "

She looked at him curiously and he blushed, nodding to her bag with an exasperated sigh. "Forget it – just come on, Cam said to hurry. And just this once, try listening to me while we're out, okay? Whatever I ask you to do, I've got my reasons. You need to trust me."

Before she could start asking questions, he grabbed her bag and headed for the door. While she peppered him with questions all the way down the stairs, he could feel that cold quiet returning – something was wrong. Bones must have sensed it too, because she was silent by the time they reached the car.

He closed the passenger side door for her and then got in, still unable to shake the feeling that something wasn't right. He locked her inside the car and searched the night until he'd spotted the cops on watch – checked for his gun, checked the night, listened for that not-quite-right tone in the darkness that he'd learned to recognize over the years. He went to the cops – both young guys that he'd met before – and told them to follow behind, just to be on the safe side.

Once he was back in the car with Bones beside him and two marked cop cars following behind, he felt a little better. Still better once they were on the highway, cruising along at a pretty good clip with Smokey Robinson on low. When he was feeling more relaxed, he made an attempt to lighten his partner's mood. He sniffed the air, and turned to Bones in exaggerated amazement.

"Geez – you had time for a shower? How do you do that?"

She looked baffled. "You don't know how to shower?"

"Of course I know how to shower – God, Bones. I mean, how do you always get ready so fast? It doesn't matter what time it is or how out of the blue something might be, I show up at your place and your showered and dressed and your hair's… y'know, all coiffed and stuff. You even have jewelry on."

Her hand went to the Indian necklace she was wearing – a pretty one with aqua blue stones – like she was surprised to find it around her neck. She shrugged.

"I don't know – I guess I've just learned to get ready quickly over the years. My mother never encouraged spending hours in front of the mirror – it doesn't actually take long to bathe and dress oneself. And then in the foster homes…" the sentence died out before she finished. Booth looked at her for a second, before his eyes returned to the road. There was a long silence while he tried to decide whether to say something.

"Y'know, you always do that," he finally said.

"Do what?" she asked, but he had the feeling this time that she knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Mention the foster homes, and then go all quiet. They couldn't have been that bad, right? There must have been someone you liked, someone that was… I don't know, nice to you. I mean, you were a cute, smart, good kid, right? Who's gonna have a problem with that?"

There was more silence, followed by a sigh that he recognized – her 'I'm thinking things through' sigh. When he looked at her this time, her forehead was wrinkled like she was concentrating on something – after another second, she cleared her throat.

"I don't really like talking about it," she finally said softly.

He nodded, sorry he'd brought it up because now she was thinking about it, lost in it, too far to reach – he hated it when she was like that.

"Hey, no problem – I mean, there are lots of things I don't like to talk about. We can drop it."

She nodded, her eyes straight ahead, and he just looked at her for another split second when the tension and the silence returned inside his head and he could never explain how, but he knew it was too late – knew that something was about to happen and he should have been ready, and a milli-second later there was a pop like a champagne cork – except he knew, of course, that it was no champagne cork, and then the front windshield exploded in fragments of glass and light and sound.

Bones screamed, and he reached for her and pushed her head down, his foot hard on the accelerator as he tried to figure out where the shot had come from or where the bullet had landed.

Things got fuzzy after that, because it turned out that the bullet had landed in his shoulder. He saw Bones looking up at him, and the world was swimming and he was thinking, "Just drive, Booth, it's only the shoulder – you've driven through worse," but then his head was so heavy that he couldn't even support it on his shoulders, and Bones was reaching for the wheel, and somewhere off in the distance there was the scream of tires and the sickening crunch of metal on metal.

And then, there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

She woke up in the hospital. She stared at the whitewashed ceiling and walls for a few moments while she tried to get her bearings, and the thought crossed her mind that if she were Booth, she might think she was dead – because of all the white, and the Christian preoccupation with white as a symbol of purity and rebirth. Which made her think, of course, of the connotations of color in other cultures over the centuries. She was thinking specifically of the significance of the color black – black, paradoxical because it could be either the absence of any pigment or the presence of many – in Eastern religions, when the door to her hospital room opened, and a doctor entered.

She didn't recognize him, which – given the number of times she'd visited local hospitals for personal or professional reasons over the past several years – struck her as slightly unusual. The doctor was a smallish man – possibly five foot four, smaller even than Hodgins or Zack – but appeared very fit. His hair was graying and he wore glasses, and his lab coat was immaculate. She tried to sit up to greet him, but something impeded her movement.

The doctor came to her bedside holding her chart, and she didn't like the fact that she couldn't move – if she could move, she reasoned, she would feel less vulnerable in this strange space with this unknown man.

"Dr. Brennan," he began, and his voice had a professionally detached quality that she immediately found comforting. "My name is Dr. Scott Landow – it's an honor to be working with you. I did a study on brain injury and paralysis in conjunction with the Jeffersonian several years ago – before your time, of course, but I still follow the work they do with great interest."

She attempted a smile because it was something Booth was always telling her was polite in these situations, and tried to sit up again. Once again, she found herself unable. The doctor's words began to sink in, and she felt her heart rate begin to accelerate and her breathing become more labored.

"Brain injury and paralysis – but I… I don't need that. I mean – that's not an area of specialty I require."

He sat down in a chair beside her bed, and she noticed that he had brown eyes – like Booth's, but not as nice as her partner's. And then he was explaining, and she was no longer thinking about anyone's eyes.

"I'm afraid it is, Dr. Brennan – a specialty you require, that is. The car accident you were in two weeks ago – "

"Two weeks? But I… I don't remember that. I barely remember a crash - ," her heart rate had more than tripled, she was sure of it. She could hear panic in her voice, as though she wasn't herself at all, and she wished suddenly that Booth was here. Booth would know what to say right now. And then she realized.

"What about my partner – Agent Seeley Booth? He was in the car with me – he was driving." He'd be here, right in the room with her, waiting for her to wake up. She felt the panic again, the way she imagined water might feel rising in her lungs, and she couldn't seem to get her breath. The doctor stood and checked the monitors that surrounded her – all of which were indicating a severe stress reaction. He called in a nurse to sedate her, but before Brennan would allow it, she looked at Dr. Landow pleadingly.

"Please – Agent Booth. Where is he? Is he all right?"

He smiled, patted her hand – she could feel the gesture, which meant at least that she had feeling in her upper right quadrant.

"Agent Booth is fine – he was here the first week, every day. As I understand it, however, he was transferred overseas rather abruptly. I believe he's following your progress remotely."

And then the nurse came – a redhead who looked vaguely familiar – and injected something into Brennan's IV. The edges of the room began to blur and soften, and then disappeared altogether. And she slept.

It was night when Brennan woke again, and she thought it might be raining outside – the curtains were closed, but she could hear the rain outside. Dr. Landow was there again, checking her vitals. She swallowed with some difficulty and tried to clear her head. She recalled their last conversation, trying to focus on the most pertinent details.

"You never told me," she closed her eyes against the rising fog in her brain, frustrated by her inability to think clearly. "My prognosis. The accident. I remember driving with Booth, but I don't remember anything more than that. My upper body seems fine – I've checked my reflexes, but I haven't been able to properly assess my lower half."

He nodded, as if she'd already said the word. "I'm afraid you suffered a T10 transection in the accident. I've been working with another specialist, and there truly have been incredible advances in this area over the past ten years. For now, however – "

She opened her eyes, and everything was dark and swimming. She realized that she was crying in front of this stranger, and nothing seemed real, or right, somehow.

"I'm paralyzed," she whispered.

The doctor took her hand, which she didn't like.

"Below the 10th thoracic vertebra. I'm afraid so."

She closed her eyes again, and removed her hand from the strange doctor's.

"And Booth is gone. Overseas."

"I believe so, yes."

She swallowed again, eyes still closed, and tried to ignore the tremor in her voice. "What about my friends from the Jeffersonian? Angela, and Hodgins, and Cam? Or Sweets? Why haven't they been here? Or my family?"

There was silence for a few seconds, and then finally she opened her eyes because the panic was starting again, and she didn't want another sedative before she knew the whole truth. When the room came into focus once more, she realized that the doctor was studying her with what appeared to be deep concern.

"What?" she asked, surprised to find that her voice had more strength in it now. "Just tell me," she ordered.

"You don't remember visiting with your friends and family?"

Panic turned to dread – she shook her head slowly, and could feel tears leaking from her tired eyes. "No," she answered, her voice still small – some strange child's voice that didn't belong to her at all.

"I'll need to run some tests, Dr. Brennan, but I must tell you that you've just spent the afternoon with Angela and your brother, Russ. You don't remember your conversations? The flowers they brought?" he nodded to a vase of calla lilies she hadn't noticed before, set on a table in the corner of the room.

She shook her head, and then the same nurse returned, and she was grateful this time to slip away.

Days blurred after that. She had vague memories of visitors, of doctors and nurses working around her, but time no longer seemed relevant – her world in the hospital seemed completely out of context with everything she'd known prior to the accident. One afternoon, when she was feeling slightly more lucid than before – for which she was grateful – she stopped Dr. Landow as he was exiting her room.

"I'd like it if you took me off some of the medications. I'm having a great deal of trouble focusing, and I'd like to be as involved as possible in my recovery."

He came to her then, looking concerned. "I understand your desire to regain your old life, Temperance, but you must understand – the injuries you sustained were significant. In addition to a rigorous pain management regiment, we've put you on anticonvulsants as a result of your head trauma. These are medications you'll need to take for the rest of your life."

She closed her eyes, fighting to stay awake, to remain in some control of the conversation. "I understand, of course, but there are other ways to manage pain. I'd like to speak with a colleague I've worked with in the past – a holistic practitioner whose work I greatly respect."

For an instant, the doctor looked… What? Afraid? Angry? Booth would know how to read him when she couldn't, it wasn't her area. But something was wrong here, she didn't like this man. She struggled to sit up, noting for the first time that there were restraints on her wrists.

Before she could ask anything further, however, Angela came into the room. Brennan found herself fighting tears when she saw her old friend walk through the door; the doctor excused himself before Brennan could say anything more, and Angela looked after him questioningly.

"What was that about?"

Brennan swallowed hard, shaking her head. "I don't like it here – I feel like there's something wrong, something they're not telling me. And they keep me so drugged I can't figure out what day it is most of the time."

Angela came to her bedside, removing her wrists from the restraints before she sat down and took her friend's hand.

"I know it's hard for you to just be still, Sweetie, but these guys are good. Dr. Landow really knows his stuff – you have no idea how much time he's put in since you got here."

Brennan nodded, digesting this information. Her friend was wearing a long, Native American skirt Brennan had always liked, and a short sleeved shirt that accentuated the muscle tone in the woman's arms. For the first time since she'd arrived, Brennan found herself thinking about her own appearance. She was silent for a moment, embarrassed at how far she'd fallen. When she finally dared ask the question, she was pained at her own vulnerability, at the tears in her eyes.

"Ange, how long have I been here?"

Angela began to cry at the question, which Brennan took to mean she'd been here for a very long time.

"I'm sorry – I didn't mean to upset you," she said softly. Angela sniffled, wiped her eyes, and looked at her friend.

"No, I'm sorry – it's just been so long, and everything's been awful, and… Sweetie, you were right when you said people haven't been telling you everything."

She actually knew, just by the look in Angela's eyes – even though technically she shouldn't have know, *couldn't* have without someone saying the words. But the look suggested the worst, and Brennan knew exactly what that worst would be. She felt tears spill down her cheeks as Angela gripped her hand even tighter. She closed her eyes, wishing that she hadn't asked – even though she'd always believed that knowing was better than not knowing. But this wasn't better.

"It's Booth. I'm so sorry to tell you this, but… he didn't make it. Booth's dead, Sweetie."

She felt her heart begin to race, kept her eyes closed as she charted the series of physical reactions that followed. Angela let go of her hand, and Brennan heard the door open and a cart was rolled in, and the pain in her chest was what she imagined a broken heart felt like, if broken hearts weren't simply a ridiculous metaphor. Her stomach burned and it seemed as though a spring was tightening inside her and the lights were too bright, too bright, too bright…

And then they were gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Since the accident, night had come and gone and come again, with no answers. Booth was pacing the lab while Hodgins, Angela, and Sweets looked on in exhaustion.

"Forty-eight hour rule, people – come on, damn it, think!"

Hodgins whirled in frustration. "Will you stop saying that? We know all about your asinine forty-eight hour rule."

Before the scientist had a chance to say anything else, Booth was on him in two strides, adrenaline pumping, his forearm closed over Hodgins' throat as he pinned him up against the wall.

"Hey," Hodgins gasped, his eyes widening in shock. "What the hell?"

"Forty-eight hours is the difference between finding a live body and a dead one. She's been gone forty-two hours and thirty-six minutes. You wanna leave, or you wanna help?"

Hodgins just stared at Booth like he'd completely lost it, and Angela came over and gently put a hand on his arm – the one that was slowly choking her ex-fiance.

"Booth – come on. We're all in this, we all love her. We're gonna find her."

Another second passed before Angela said "Seeley" quietly, and Booth removed his hand and took two steps back. He turned his back on the scene – on everyone and everything that suddenly seemed like it would drive him right over the edge – and took a breath. His head was throbbing, a bandage at his temple the only sign of the accident that had left him unconscious long enough for someone to literally steal Bones right under his nose. The bullet hadn't been a bullet at all, but a tranquilizer that hit him hard and, even now, left him feeling like he was swimming through a nightmare. He closed his eyes, counted out five seconds, waited for that stillness that would come and tell him what to do next. It didn't come – nothing seemed still, nothing seemed logical, all he could see and hear was Bones. But she was nowhere to be found.

He took another breath, talking through the firestorm in his head. "All right, people, let's go over what we know – "

"We've been over what we know," Hodgins interrupted again. "We don't know jack." A single look from Angela and he shut his mouth, looking honestly sorry, and Booth fought the urge to strangle him.

Sweets spoke up hesitantly. "He – uh, well, we know about Wilcott. That he was a physician working with the homeless in New York – considered a great humanitarian and a brilliant clinician for nearly two decades, until people noticed that an awful lot of his patients were disappearing."

"Which is when they discovered his lab," Angela said, the horror clear on her face.

"Right, right," Booth said impatiently, still pacing to try and get his head jumpstarted. "So, this guy is supposedly a great doctor – except that every third patient or so, he takes to his underground lab and plays crazy Nazi scientist on." He paused. "And they've already checked that spot, right – where his lab was?"

"They tore the building down three years ago," Hodgins said.

Booth kicked viciously at a trash can, sending it flying into the wall. "Which means we've got jack."

Another tense silence followed, before Cam finally came in with a thin file folder. She looked from one member of the lab to the next and seemed to understand exactly what she'd walked into.

"So, here's what I've got. At ten o'clock Friday night, Doctor Jedediah Wilcott was in his cell for lights out. At two a.m., surveillance cameras picked him up leaving maximum security in a guard's uniform carrying someone else's ID. Two guards were found dead in his cell the next morning…"

Booth paced the floor, running a hand through his short hair in frustration. "Y'know, Hodgins is right – "

Angela and Hodgins exchanged a look of surprise at the unexpected admission, but both stayed quiet as Booth continued.

"We've been over this – it doesn't matter. So this guy's some Jedi or something, who can just magically convince guards to give over their guns and uniforms – that doesn't get us any closer to finding Bones. We need to look at the visitor's log again. A prisoner who's been in maximum security for five years doesn't just walk out of Sing Sing, drive to DC, kidnap a high profile forensic anthropologist, and vanish without a trace. At least, he doesn't do it alone."

"He hasn't had any visitors in six months, and then it was just his lawyer," Cam said, though she knew they'd already gone over this at least six times.

"And still no luck tracking that guy down?" Booth asked, still moving around the lab like a caged animal.

Cam shook her head. "None – he hadn't been his lawyer very long – "

"And the guy representing him before that died a year ago," Booth finished for her.

While the rest of the group went over the details of the case, Angela went to Cam and nodded toward the case file. "Do you mind if I take a look?"

Cam handed the file over, still focused on Booth's words. "I'm telling you, the guy has had no contact with the outside world – he's got the usual crazed sycophants following his every move, but he doesn't play along. He doesn't even take their letters. Limited computer time, and from what we've got so far it doesn't appear he was corresponding with anyone but his lawyer."

Angela had taken the case file and retreated to a separate corner. Suddenly, she held up her hand.

"Uh – you guys?"

All eyes turned as one to look at a black and white photo Angela held up.

"This is a picture of Wilcott and his lawyer – Scott Landow. Maybe it's just me, but does anyone else notice anything odd about these two?"

Booth, Hodgins, and Cam all stood in front of the photo, studying it carefully. Finally, Hodgins spoke hesitantly.

"The jawline – and the forehead. Shape of the face is similar, too."

Booth looked at them both. "You're saying these two are related?"

Angela nodded. "If you look at the eyes as well – Wilcott is obviously older, but I'd say this is a close relation."

"A close relation who's gone off the radar." Booth snapped open his cell phone and dialed, still looking at the photo as he barked orders.

"Yeah, this is Special Agent Seeley Booth, I need everything you have on a DC lawyer by the name of Scott Landow – birth records, family, and if and where he owns any property in the U.S. or abroad."

He hung up, feeling the faintest glimmer of hope for the first time since this nightmare began.

* * *

Dr. Jedediah Wilcott stood behind the one-way glass, watching his subject for any change. Her vitals remained constant, her once tumultuous brainwaves now showing virtually no activity at all. When his brother came in, Wilcott sighed unhappily.

"I think we've broken her – interesting, yes?" His clear blue eyes shone for just a moment; he'd been waiting so long for this. Planning. Dreaming, quite literally, of what it would be like to manipulate the brilliant Dr. Temperance Brennan in this way. The past two days had been both satisfying and extremely illuminating. Until now.

His brother wasn't nearly as interested – not in the least. He didn't want to be here, Jedediah knew; didn't think it was safe (it wasn't, of course, but he didn't need to know that), wanted only to do away with Dr. Brennan and leave the country. Which would all happen in time – well, it would happen for Jedediah. He already knew that Scott would never leave the confines of this house again. Ah well, it was the price you paid for the work.

Scott sighed, leaning back against the wall with his eyes closed. "I need sleep. You said it wouldn't take this long – why hasn't she figured it out?"

A tiny pulse in Jedediah's jaw ticked – he fought to stay calm. "I lied," he said matter of factly. "Most subjects don't recognize the manipulation for weeks, even months. Some never do. Dr. Brennan won't be as long – I'm certain of that, but I have no way of knowing how long it will be."

"And I'm just supposed to be on call twenty-four-seven, feeding the lies, playing those damned tapes, until she realizes what's going on?"

Jedediah fixed his brother with a glare of pure loathing. His brother – the actor. The good looking one, the one who never completed anything and never cared to try. His brother, the last of his blood. He managed a cold smile, and Scott looked away – frightened.

Good.

"Let's try a bit of psychic defibrillation, then – see if we can't move things along."

And for the first time since capturing Dr. Brennan nearly forty-eight hours before, he opened the door and stood in the same room with the woman he'd been dreaming of for five years.

* * *

She woke with no idea how long she'd been unconscious, but Booth was talking to her. He was wearing a pale blue t-shirt with a darker blue windbreaker, and he was smiling. She realized immediately that it was a dream, because Angela had been here, had told her that Booth was gone. And so the brown eyes that looked at her – real as they might seem – weren't real at all.

"You're not here," she said firmly, and her voice had a distant quality to it, as though she was speaking from beneath the sea.

Booth looked hurt. "What do you mean, I'm not here? Where else would I be, Bones?"

She tried to sort through the confusion in her brain. She wasn't used to everything being so muddled, and was frankly getting tired of it. She resolved to speak with Dr. Landow the next time she saw him – to tell him once and for all that she was through with all these medications.

Booth – imaginary, sweet, lost Booth – took her hand, and she suddenly realized that without the drugs, he would disappear. She would be Dr. Temperance Brennan – tragically paralyzed, her partner killed, her mind a shadow of what it had once been.

Suddenly, the drugs didn't seem like such a bad thing.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

She tried to smile, but found that she was crying again – which seemed like all she could do of late. "I'm sorry you died," she managed.

"Hey – Bones, enough of that, you're starting to creep me out. I'm not dead, okay? I'm right here – see, here's my hand." He leaned in closer. "Smell me – same old Obsession wearing Seeley Booth."

He took her hand and put it on his face, but she didn't trust it because she knew she'd spoken with Angela. Hadn't she? But his face was warm, just the tiniest bit of stubble at his jawline, and she touched his lips and looked into his eyes and when Dr. Landow came in this time she held onto Booth's hand tightly, and whispered as though she were a child.

"Don't leave – don't let him give me anything," and Booth just smiled.

"The doc here's just trying to make you better, Bones. He gets the trophy in some ballgame, in my book."

Brennan stared at him – stared through him for a moment, it seemed, because suddenly he flickered on and off like a strobe light – there and then gone, then back again.

"What did you say?" she asked.

Booth grinned, but his grin didn't look like his. She thought of Angela, in her pretty sleeveless shirt and no jacket. What time of year was it?

"How long have I been here?" she asked Booth, the same question she'd asked Angela. Booth didn't answer, so she turned to Dr. Landow.

"Two months," the doctor finally answered.

"So it's January?" she asked, thinking again of Angela's outfit. What about Christmas? Did her family come? Did they bring a tree? Open presents here?

Dr Landow had that look again – the one she couldn't read, but had seen before. Like he was trapped, caught in a lie.

"That's right, Temperance. It's January."

She looked at Booth, tried to get him to see what she was seeing, but when she looked at him peripherally he seemed almost translucent. So this was the dream? And Angela had been real? Brennan tried to sit up, but found herself once more hindered by the restraints. Hadn't Booth been holding her hand?

"Why am I being restrained? And why haven't I seen any specialists but you? Or started physical therapy?"

Booth squeezed her hand. "Hey, Bones, take it easy – Dr. Landow here's doing the best he can, huh? No offense, but you haven't exactly been the best patient."

"Well, he hasn't exactly been the best doctor," she returned, trying to keep her temper. "This is absurd – I have no control over my treatment, no role whatsoever in my recovery. I don't even know my prognosis."

He flickered again, and she wished fervently that he would stop doing that. But this time when Booth flickered, the room seemed to flicker with him – for no more than a tenth of a second, it seemed that the hospital itself had vanished.

She blinked, suddenly not trusting her own mind. Dr. Landow looked pleased. An instant later, seemingly out of nowhere, a second doctor suddenly stood beside him. He was slightly taller than Dr. Landow, with reddish hair going white and a neatly trimmed beard. She knew him. She searched her memory, trying to remember, and realized that she was perspiring, her heart rate increasing exponentially. Whoever he was, Brennan was suddenly terrified.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Booth stood in Bones' office, staring out her window at the city below. Fifty-two hours, and he was about to lose it. They were still looking into the lawyer, but so far nothing had turned up. Wilcott's parents had died in a suspicious fire when he was twelve; there had been an infant brother, but no one seemed to have a clue what happened to him. Booth was willing to bet next month's salary that the lawyer and the missing brother were one and the same, but so far that got him squat.

All he knew for sure was that she was still out there – still alive. There weren't a lot of certainties in Booth's life: he didn't know what his next case would be or where he'd end up in ten years (if he made it that long). But he knew - the way Hodgins knew dirt or Angela knew people – that his partner was still alive. For one thing, that Wilcott guy wouldn't have gone to this much trouble to take Bones if he was just gonna kill her. But that made him think about what Wilcott would do _instead_ of killing her, and that thought was driving him insane. He kept seeing Bones' face – that time he'd saved her from that jackoff Kenton, or pulled her from the sand… She'd be expecting him to come through that door. Fifty-two hours, all that time waiting for Booth to bust through the door and blow the bad guys away.

The office door opened, and Angela walked in – he didn't turn, but he could see her reflection in the window.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," she said quietly. He almost smiled at that one. Everyone else had gone home and showered, taken a couple hours to chill out, but Booth couldn't seem to leave the Jeffersonian.

"Yeah, right. I'll just curl up on the sofa here while my best friend's being – " he stopped, honestly more for Angela than himself. The look on her face suggested she couldn't take much more, and he kind of knew the feeling.

"I couldn't sleep," he finished lamely.

She nodded. "Yeah, me neither. You should at least shower – use Brennan's. It might help clear your mind." She wrinkled her nose a little. "And no offense, but you're starting to smell pretty ripe."

Before he could respond, his cell rang. He grabbed it before the first ring was out and snapped it open, his stomach grinding.

"What've you got?" he barked, not bothering with introductions.

He was silent for a few seconds, listening to the voice on the other end. When the man's words were out, Booth closed his eyes against tears he wasn't prepared for.

"Where?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice even.

"All right," he said in response to the information he'd just been given. "I want a team there, but no lights, no sirens. Ambulance, SWAT, fire department if you've got 'em. Give me a block of buffer, and don't make a move 'til I get there."

He smiled awkwardly at Angela when he hung up, still trying to get a handle on his emotions. "They think they found her."

Before she could respond, he strode out of the office with Angela hot on his heels. His brain was in overdrive as he formulated the plan, thought of the best route for getting to the location… He didn't know the house and so had no idea where they might be keeping Bones, but they'd have the infrared and satellite photos up by the time he got there. He just –

"Seeley!" Cam's voice finally cut through his frenzy. He realized he'd pretty much plowed through the squint squad on his way out the door; now he turned to find Hodgins, Angela, Cam, and Sweets all staring at him.

"You mind telling us what's going on?" Cam asked.

He took a shaky breath. "Uh – yeah. Sorry. I don't know that much, but they think they found her. In D.C. The brother's ex-wife's sister or – look, I don't have time to explain. I'll call you guys as soon as I know anything."

He turned and headed for the door once more, catching sight of Angela as she grabbed her purse and coat and flew after him.

"Unh-uh – this is dangerous."

"Then I'll stay in the car," she returned evenly. "But I'm going with you."

* * *

What should've been an hour-long ride ended up taking just under thirty minutes. It was lunch hour on a Tuesday, which meant traffic was backed up around D.C., but Booth switched on the lights and siren of the Denali he had on loan from the Bureau and kept his foot on the accelerator the entire time. About fifteen minutes into the drive, her hands clutching the dashboard, Angela turned to Booth.

"You really think we'll find her. I mean – alive?"

He looked at her quickly, then returned his attention to the road. "What kind of question's that? Geez – yeah, we're gonna find her. Alive."

"Forty-eight hours is a long time."

He chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Fifty-six."

"What?" She sounded baffled.

"Fifty-six hours and forty-two minutes. Trust me, Angela, I know how long it is."

They were silent for a few seconds after that, and Booth was thinking again of Bones' face – that way she just opened up to the world, took it all in. And the way she didn't hold back – that's what he loved the most about her, the fact that when she was in, she was _all_ in. He realized that Angela was talking to him again, and pulled himself back.

"Sorry – what?"

There was a pause, which meant she was probably building up to something.

"If – " she stopped, corrected herself, and then started again. "_When_ we get her back and she's okay, what are you gonna do?"

He didn't really understand the question, but figured he might as well go along with it. "What do you mean, what am I gonna do? I don't know… Probably give her a huge Seeley Booth bear hug, lock her somewhere so I know she's safe, and then go home and crash for about three days."

Angela was quiet for a second more, and Booth was really starting to wish he'd put his foot down and left her at the lab.

"That's not what I mean. Booth, this is getting ridiculous. You save her, she saves you, neither of you can have a meaningful romantic relationship with anyone else – I mean, look at you."

"What's wrong with me?" he asked defensively, before he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview and winced. She might have a point there: his hair was greasy, his stubble was definitely more homeless guy beard than mysterious five o'clock shadow, and the circles under his eyes were… well, they weren't pretty.

"She's my friend," he said shortly, trying to keep the irritation from his voice. "And my partner – what do you want me to do, just throw my hands in the air and say, 'Oh well, guess it was time for a new partner anyway?'"

"That's not what I'm saying and you know it." Angela had this way of setting him straight that kind of reminded him of his mom – he half expected a cuff upside the head to go along with her words.

"I'm just saying, you're being kind of a moron. It's understandable with Brennan – she lives in her head, she's never had a relationship like this. But you – you have a kid, for God's sake. You should be better at this. If you need to spell it out to her, then just do it already."

She fell silent, and Booth didn't really know how to respond so he just stayed quiet, too. They rode the last ten minutes in silence, until he could see flashing lights in the distance and knew they were almost there. Bones was almost home.

* * *

"I know you," Brennan said, her mouth suddenly dry.

The new doctor smiled – an oily smile that made her uncomfortable – and nodded. "You do, Dr. Brennan, you do. I must congratulate you – similar experiments performed in my lab could go on for months before my subjects had the slightest clue anything was off-kilter. It took you fifty-two conscious hours, to realize things are not as they seem."

He moved closer. The room was flickering continuously now, so that she felt nauseas; one moment she was surrounded by a regular room that she did not recognize, then back to the hospital once more. She closed her eyes in an effort to shut out the rapidly shifting images, focusing instead on the newcomer.

"Of course, my subjects in the past were drunks and mental defectives – hardly exemplary lab rats. You, however – "

Her eyes flew open, the memory suddenly clear. "Jedediah Wilcott," she said, and her feeling for the man came through quite clearly in her tone.

"In the flesh," he replied, obviously pleased that she remembered.

He moved closer, removing electrodes from her forehead and the base of her neck that she hadn't even known were there. The hospital vanished for good. Instead, she was in a bedroom that had probably been quite lavish in its time, the furnishings – except for the bed – an extravagant dark cherry bedroom set. The monitors remained by her bedside, though they were a far cry from the state-of-the-art equipment she'd imagined seeing just moments before. And rather than the hospital bed she'd thought she was in, she found herself strapped into what appeared to be an old dentist's chair. Rapid images were being projected onto the far wall of the room – images stolen from her world over the past five years. Booth, her father, Russ, Angela, Zack… She looked away, fighting tears and perhaps the first genuinely homicidal impulse she had ever felt.

"But you're in prison," she said, unable to find anything more logical to say.

He raised his eyebrows, his smile widening. "Am I, now? No, I'm afraid I'd had quite enough of life behind bars. But enough about me – let's talk about you."

He sat down at her bedside. Brennan moved as far as she could away from the man – which wasn't far considering her restraints.

"What did you do to me?"

"Do? Well, technically not very much at all. Isn't that right, Scott?"

He turned to the other man, who'd been looking increasingly agitated as Wilcott spoke.

"I don't like this, Jed," Landow said, his voice laden with tension. "She knows – you've got what you need. Let's get on with this already."

The older man raised an eyebrow at Brennan. "You see that? My brother is a very impatient man – if he had his way, you'd already be dead."

She looked at Landow, who looked away self-consciously.

"It's nothing personal," he mumbled.

"Well, it seems extremely personal to me," Brennan said, her voice rising. "This whole _thing_ seems extremely personal – and it isn't any way to conduct a scientific experiment, so that's a ridiculous argument," she added darkly, glaring at her captors.

Wilcott seemed momentarily troubled by this remark, but had no opportunity to respond because a moment later, his cell phone rang. Landow looked at him in surprise, but his brother merely held up an index finger.

"One moment, please," as though he were speaking to business associates, and answered the phone. He listened for no more than three seconds, said "I understand," in a detached tone, and hung up.

A moment later, he went to one of two matching nightstands, opened the top drawer, and removed a large syringe.

"It seems the cavalry is on its way," he said calmly.

Landow looked at him in horror. "What? How close are they? We have to go."

"I agree," Wilcott said, still with such an eerie stillness that Brennan found almost no solace in the knowledge that Booth was on his way.

"Be a dear, Scott," Wilcott said, "and hold her for me." He nodded to Brennan, who was trying unsuccessfully to shrink into her chair in an effort to get away from her captors.

"What is that?" she asked, unable to mask the terror in her voice. Wilcott looked approvingly at the monitor by her bedside, attached to two remaining electrodes at her temples. A series of electronic green peaks leapt across the screen.

"No need to fear, Temperance – it's quick. Not at all painful."

"And then we go, right?" Landow asked, hesitating until his brother responded.

"Of course," Wilcott replied smoothly.

Landow moved closer, holding Brennan by the shoulders. She tried to struggle, but between the restraints at her wrists and Landow pinioning her upper body, it was pointless. Wilcott leaned in, and she thought that he smelled like cinnamon and like cigarettes, and that if she miraculously survived this, she would never forget that smell. She wished suddenly that she could see Booth one last time – she should be thinking of her father, she realized, or of Russ or Angela or even the Jeffersonian, but she only wanted Booth. If she could, she would tell him that she was sorry if she'd ever been dismissive, or cold, or noncommunicative. She would answer any of his questions, no matter how personal or pointless they seemed.

Brennan closed her eyes, imagining her partner's face as she awaited the needle that would mean her end. Instead, she heard a dull grunt from Landow – who was positioned directly at her left ear – and he released her shoulders. She opened her eyes in time to watch the younger man slide to the floor, the syringe buried deep in his neck.

Landow smiled at her cheerfully. "My apologies – Scott was always such a bore."

"You – " she tried to find words, to regain that cool, clear logic that had always been her trademark before. "You killed him."

He began gathering instruments from around the room and placing them neatly in a large leather carpet bag.

"I did. Not a terrible loss, really – he was an actor, you know. So, I think the world will survive another day."

"But I thought – " she didn't trust her voice enough to continue. Wilcott went to the nightstand again and began removing supplies, but he turned at this.

"That I'd kill you?" He paused, his smile deepening. "Oh, I will – no need to worry about that. But I must say, I've so enjoyed watching you – I've learned more from you already in the past two days than in years studying the dregs of humanity in Brooklyn. You just go about your life – I'll be watching. And we'll be together again, sooner than you know."

He came to her and kissed her temple, running an index finger along her jawline as he whispered, "See you in your dreams." And with that, he took his carpet bag and hurried out the bedroom door, closing it carefully behind him.

* * *

Brennan had no way of knowing how much time passed before she heard activity outside – it seemed like only a few minutes, but she'd stopped trusting her own mind over the past two days. Landow lay inert on the floor, and she found herself watching him for signs of life. When she saw none, she watched for signs of death instead – waiting for the evacuation that would inevitably come, for rigor to set. Would she be trapped in this room through the entire process? Wilcott had said help was on the way, but was this just another experiment? Another ploy to trigger her emotions so that he could watch her thought centers light up like some medieval arcade game?

There was chaos outside – she heard tires screech, car doors slam, people shouting. And then, and she didn't know if it was real but she suddenly didn't care: it was still the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.

"This is Special Agent Seeley Booth. The house is surrounded. Jedediah Wilcott, I want you to come out with your hands up, or this isn't gonna end well for you."

Brennan smiled – just a little – at that, but the smile faded quickly. She was safe; Wilcott was gone, and Booth was outside. She just had to wait, and it would all be over. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she remembered Wilcott's words. 'We'll be together again.; She swallowed hard, pushing the thought far away. Booth was here – she was safe.

* * *

When Booth finally made the decision to go in, he led the charge. Between the SWAT team, cop cars, ambulance, and news vans, the entire city block was shut down. They'd been on the scene for forty-five minutes, with Booth calling the shots from the start. The infrared picked up two bodies in a room on the second floor – one of them losing heat fast, the other most likely restrained. Two bodies, one of them dead, and Booth's lips moved in prayer as he came through the front door, every nerve in his body on fire.

The house was silent for a fraction of a second that went on for a lifetime. His heart was pounding like a bass drum in his ears, pistol tight in his hand; he gave a hand signal for the rest of the team to hold, and the world went still.

And then he heard her. "Booth! I'm here."

Later, thinking about the way things unfolded from that point, he couldn't remember exactly how it all played out. He could only point to where he ended up, and piece things together from there: he climbed the carpeted stairs, walked the dusty old hallway, stopped at a doorway at the end of the hall. Kicked in the door – which he knew only because later he noticed the splintered hinges – and found her.

He remembered that part.

Brennan was strapped in an old dentist's chair, with restraints at her waist, her legs, and her wrists. She had wires stuck to her temples, and her face was drawn – pale, wasted, like she hadn't slept or eaten since she'd been taken. The body of Scott Landow lay dead on the floor, a syringe in his neck, and Booth wondered what happened but knew now wasn't the time for details.

He went to Bones and undid the straps. Embarrassed because he was getting all choked up – so much that he couldn't quite see through the tears, but Bones didn't cry. She just kind of stared at him, until he undid the last strap and she kind of fell into his arms.

"You're okay," he whispered, almost like he was convincing himself as much as her.

"You're really here?" she asked, and he laughed a little.

"Yeah, Bones. I'm really here. You're safe – it's all over."

But when he looked at her again, he couldn't shake the feeling that she didn't believe him. And with Wilcott nowhere to be found and his partner a ghost in his arms, he had to ask himself: Was it really over?

Or was it just beginning?

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

After Booth found her in the house in D.C., Brennan was admitted to the hospital for tests, rehydrated, and sent home the next day. There was no paralysis – like so many other things she had experienced with Wilcott, her physical symptoms had been induced through drugs, electrical stimulation to the appropriate brain centers, and the images he'd introduced while those centers were being stimulated. If it hadn't left her with nightmares, paranoia, and the strange feeling that nothing she experienced was real any longer, the forensic anthropologist might have found the experiment itself fascinating.

She was grateful to return to the Jeffersonian by the end of the week, despite pleas from Booth and her co-workers that she at least take the weekend to recover. The work was a relief, as it had always been. She disliked the way people treated her now – almost as though she really was the paraplegic Wilcott had conjured in his lab.

Angela came to her that Friday and said, "Sweetie, if you need to talk, you know I'm here," but Brennan shook her head quickly.

"I'm fine – there really isn't anything to talk about."

Angela was wearing the skirt Brennan had imagined while she was captive, but with a long-sleeved blouse much more appropriate for the season. She found herself staring at the skirt, trying to remember if she'd seen this much detail in her vision – had everything been three-dimensional? And if it hadn't, why didn't she notice?

"Well," Angela finally said, looking undeniably unnerved. "If you don't want to talk, I guess I'll just be going. But you can call me over the weekend, if you want."

To which Brennan had nodded, her eyes still on the skirt. Angela left her office as though she was fleeing something, and Brennan – not typically that insightful about her friend's behavior – thought she understood why.

Though she felt uncomfortable with her co-workers at the Jeffersonian, she found herself actively seeking out Booth. If her own sense of reality seemed less reliable now, her partner seemed more solid than ever. When she'd first gotten out of the hospital he had awkwardly told her that he was there if she wanted to talk, but since that time he'd been going out of his way not to mention anything about the abduction. She avoided the subject as well, though more because of his apparent discomfort than her own. In fact, she shared none of the details of her fifty-six hours with Wilcott, with Booth or anyone else. Once she returned home, she answered only the questions necessary to find the mad doctor – leaving out the details of his experiment, what she had seen, and what she believed. She told no one that she'd been told her partner was dead, or that she had been paralyzed, or that as far as she was concerned she'd been in a hospital bed for two months. Those were the details she carried with her, but they seemed too intimate to share.

She no longer cared to sleep - though she would, of course, when her body would allow her to go no further. During those times, she would invariably dream once more that she was back in the hospital room with Wilcott. In the dreams, the rescue had never happened. She truly was paralyzed and brain damaged; Booth was really gone. After the dreams, she would awaken with her bed sheets damp with perspiration, her heart beating too quickly, and in that state she would recite the facts:

She had been found on November 16th; she was not paralyzed; she could call Booth if she wanted, and he would answer. That other world had been the dream – this was not.

* * *

Brennan had been back for two weeks when she mistook the right femur of an eight-year-old girl for the left clavicle of a grown man. The lab had been sorting through the remains of a recent fire, in which an entire family had died. It was late on a Wednesday night; she was alone in the lab trying to make the pieces fit. She stared at the two skeletons, laid out on the stainless steel table side by side, and could make no sense of either of them. It was a simple enough task: connect the bones, the way she always had. ID the bodies, and move on.

"Come on, Temperance," she whispered in frustration. "This is not difficult."

"Are you sure about that?" came a voice behind her. Her stomach lurched, her pulse accelerated, her mouth went dry. She turned to find Wilcott smiling at her, his blue eyes charting her reaction.

"You can't be here – there are guards. You're not allowed here."

"I'm allowed anywhere you're allowed," he replied smoothly. "I walk with you now."

He took another step toward her, and she shouted for security – only to be awakened by her own voice. Disoriented, she looked around to find herself asleep in the lab, her head resting beside the bones of a body she'd correctly identified just before drifting off, both femur and clavicle appropriately placed. It was all a dream… Wilcott was gone, possibly never to return. If he was apprehended, she would likely have no part in it. It was over, she reminded herself as she had countless times over the past two weeks.

She stood and decided to take a walk, trying to push beyond the stress reaction her body had initiated during the dream. The Jeffersonian had always been one of her favorite places at night, but now she couldn't seem to recapture the wonder she'd once felt. When the walk did her no good, she thought perhaps a drive might soothe her nerves – besides which, she'd need to go home to shower and change before returning for work. Once she was in her car, she began thinking of the case she was working on; Booth had some files that he'd promised to bring her the following day, but maybe she could save him the trip by stopping by his office.

It was just after five a.m., which meant cleaning crews and even the most devoted FBI staff were long gone. She showed the security guard her clearance and he escorted her to Booth's office – which, predictably enough, was locked and vacant. A moment passed in which both Brennan and the guard stood in silence outside the door, before she thought of something.

"Dr. Lance Sweets – the psychologist on staff here? I don't suppose he might be in?" she tried to sound casual, but was surprised at how much the answer seemed to matter.

The guard rolled his eyes good naturedly. "Sweets? Sure – there's only a couple hours a day when he's _not_ here, practically lives out of that office. You want to see him?"

She did. Moments later, she found herself escorted more deeply into the federal building. At the door, the guard gestured back toward the front of the building.

"I should get back – you okay from here?"

She nodded, watching him walk down the dimly lit corridors until he'd disappeared from view. Brennan could see the light on beneath Sweet's door and heard him moving, but couldn't bring herself to knock. She knew perfectly well what the dreams were, and that in time they would fade. She thought of the Wilcott she'd seen in her dream in the lab, and how real he'd seemed. 'I walk with you now,' he'd said. Was that true? Nothing seemed real any longer – she felt as though someone was living inside her head, charting her every thought, analyzing her every reaction. She took a breath, steadied herself, and knocked.

There was what sounded like a crash from inside the room, followed by a string of low curses before Sweets finally answered the door.

"Dr. Brennan," he said, obviously surprised.

"I – I was just out for a drive. Or – well, I was working late at the Jeffersonian on a very interesting case, and then I thought I'd pick up some files from Booth but he's not here so I thought, since I was here, it would be impolite not to stop in."

He raised his eyebrows, his mouth slightly agape. He wore navy blue sweatpants and a t-shirt several sizes too large that inexplicably read "Aqua Teen Hunger Force" over an animated meatball, soft drink, and container of fries, and his forehead was damp with sweat. She abandoned her story, intrigued by what she'd found.

"What are you doing?"

He smiled self consciously. "Oh – yoga, actually. I've been coming in early mornings, when it's quiet. And my office is actually very relaxing."

"More relaxing than your home?"

He just smiled awkwardly. A moment passed, in which he seemed to realize that it was not common practice for someone to seek him out at five a.m. Particularly Brennan. He opened his door wider, stepping aside.

"So – you're here, and I'm pretty much done with the yoga… Why don't you come in?"

She looked uncertain. "I really should get back to work."

"Sure – I can understand that. But how about this: just come in for some tea, get some space from whatever case you're working on for a little while, and then you can get back to it once you've gotten some distance."

A second or two passed, while she debated. Though she'd identified the latest remains, there were thousands of unidentified bodies waiting for her attention in the vault. And regardless of how many hours she worked, there would be thousands more to come. She sighed, taking a step inside.

"Do you have any coffee?"

Inside, a large blue yoga ball had been rolled to one side of the room. The office smelled faintly of lavender – she looked inquiringly at Sweets, who shook his head regretfully.

"Sorry – I'm not supposed to have anymore coffee. Only tea. I'm trying to learn to relax. I'm twenty-two and I've got an ulcer and high blood pressure – not exactly the picture of sanity I'm trying to convey to my clients."

Brennan nodded understandingly. Sweets poured what smelled like ginger tea from a bright blue teapot into a matching mug. She accepted the tea, but chose to stand and explore the room while he sat.

"I find yoga very soothing," she told him. "How long have you been practicing?"

"Two weeks – so far I don't think it's that soothing, though. I'm obsessed with doing the postures better than everyone else, so I stay late and get up early and dream that I'm doing downward dog naked."

She was looking through the titles on his bookshelf, but at this she turned to look at him seriously. "You're supposed to look inward and focus on your breathing in yoga. If you're comparing your performance with everyone else's, I don't think you're focusing properly."

He smiled slightly. "I know, Dr. Brennan – I was just kidding. Sort of."

"Oh." She returned her attention to the books, finally choosing a thick volume on dreams. She leafed through, dismissing the section on symbolism and the subconscious in favor of a lengthy chapter on night terrors. When she looked up, she realized that Sweets was watching her.

"You can take that with you if you'd like."

She replaced it quickly on the shelf. "No, thank you."

Another silence followed, this one more uncomfortable, before Sweets finally spoke.

"Why don't you sit for a minute, Dr. Brennan? Relax – we've got a good two hours before anyone shows up around here, you could probably use a little down time."

She sat obediently, letting the heat from her tea cup warm her hands.

"We haven't really had a chance to talk since you got back," he said. He looked slightly ridiculous in his sweatpants, which only accentuated how long and thin his legs were. She smiled a little, thinking of what Booth would say if he was here.

"No," she said in response to his statement. "I've been quite busy, trying to get caught up."

Sweets nodded. "Sure – you deal with a lot, I'm sure it set you back being gone like that."

"It did," she agreed.

"So – were you working last night and stayed at the office? Or did you just come in early?"

She liked it when he stuck with concrete questions, so she answered promptly. "I stayed last night. There was a little girl in a fire – a whole family, actually. I stayed to sort through the remains."

"Do you do that a lot? – I mean, stay there overnight? Do you sleep in your office?"

She considered the question. "I used to – I mean, I used to sleep in my office. I don't seem to require as much sleep recently."

"Since you've been back, you mean."

She nodded, but said nothing more. Sweets was watching her now, and she didn't like that he seemed to be seeing something she hadn't meant to reveal.

"Have you talked to anyone about what happened with Dr. Wilcott?" he finally asked.

She shook her head, but was alarmed to find tears come to her eyes. She looked down quickly, pushing back the emotion.

"It's over now," she said emphatically. "I'd rather not dwell on it."

He nodded, as though this made perfect sense. "Sure, I can see how you'd feel that way. But uh – have you been dreaming about him at all?"

She looked at him suspiciously, trying to determine if this might be a trap – some way to get her to say something she didn't want to say.

"I've had a few dreams," she finally admitted.

"It makes sense – I mean, dreams are often a way for the subconscious to process something the conscious mind is unwilling or unable to deal with. So, if you're not talking about what happened, those emotions – fear, confusion, anxiety – would need to be acknowledged in some other way."

"But if I discuss what happened, the dreams will stop?"

A moment passed while he considered the question, before he finally answered honestly. "Not necessarily – they may decrease in intensity and frequency, but you may continue to have them for some time."

"Weeks?" she asked, trying not to appear as vulnerable as she suddenly felt.

He smiled sympathetically. "Maybe longer."

"But less if I talk about it."

"In all likelihood, yes."

She took a breath, weighing the benefits and drawbacks carefully. Finally, after much consideration, she sighed.

"So, what do I say?"

Sweets took a notebook and pen from his desk and settled back in his chair, more at ease than she'd ever seen him before – in spite of the sweatpants and t-shirt.

"Say whatever you want," he said simply.

And so she did.

Sweets was silent through most of her narrative, asking the occasional question and jotting things down seemingly at random. As she was telling him when she'd first realized there was something wrong, however, he paused in his note taking.

"Hmm," he said.

She looked at him suspiciously. "What do you mean, 'hmm'?"

"Just that it's interesting. Please go on, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No, I clearly said something that means something to you, and I'd like to know what it is."

"You don't have to get so defensive," Sweets said. When it was clear she wasn't going to simply let it go, he finally conceded. "All right – I just think it's interesting that in this altered state, you saw everyone you knew and simply accepted them at face value. Agent Booth's presence was the only one you questioned."

"It wasn't his presence – it was him. He was saying things that weren't Booth-like, besides which I'd already been told that he had moved away, then that he'd died, and then suddenly he was sitting there talking to me. Logically, it made no sense."

Sweets nodded. "But it wasn't those inconsistencies that tipped you off though, right? It was Booth himself – the things he was saying, specifically. That just seems interesting to me."

"Why?" she asked, beginning to wish she hadn't come here at all.

"Because," he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Your mind was able to manufacture everyone else in your life – your brother, your father, Angela, Hodgins, me… We were all there at some point, right?"

She nodded but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"But Booth is the only one of us that lives in a place other than your head. The very reason you two have such a successful – albeit highly dysfunctional – partnership, is the same reason that you couldn't pull Booth out of a hat the way you could the rest of us."

"I don't know what that means," she said, beginning to feel genuinely annoyed.

Sweets took a breath, searching for a better way to phrase what he was trying to say. "Okay – Agent Booth was talking to you about baseball, right? He mentioned a trophy in a baseball game, but it wasn't specific enough to sound genuine. That's because Booth lives in a different world than you… He speaks in sports metaphors, believes in a just Christian god, talks about pie and movies and music you've never heard of. And those aspects of Agent Booth are what make him unique to you – "

She interrupted. "So you're saying that my mind couldn't just replicate a believable Booth because we're so different."

He paused. "Well – yes, in a nutshell, but I don't think you're getting the significance of this – "

"No, I understand," she glanced at the clock on Sweets' wall, amazed to find that it was nearly seven a.m. Before he could begin psychoanalyzing her relationship with Booth yet again, she stood. "I should get back to work."

Sweets stood reluctantly and walked her to the door. "Of course. But if you want to talk about this some more, or if the dreams get worse, you know where I am."

She gave him a small smile. "In your office doing competitive yoga." He acknowledged the comment with a self-conscious grin, and Brennan met his eye for just a moment. "Thank you for listening. I don't usually do this kind of thing, but…" She trailed off, uncertain what else to say.

"Anytime, Dr. Brennan. Really."

She walked away feeling for the first time in two weeks as though she was walking on solid ground. She would be all right. She would survive Jedediah Wilcott, or she'd die trying.

That night, Brennan slept more soundly than she had since her abduction. Though she tried to tell herself that her body's need for sleep had finally exceeded the effects of the trauma, it was impossible to deny that she'd felt less burdened since the conversation with Sweets.

Booth had been driving her to work every morning since her return - despite her insistence that she was fully capable of driving herself. This morning was no exception. He arrived at seven thirty-five exactly, holding a steaming cup of coffee and wearing a freshly pressed suit. Brennan was already showered, dressed, and ready to start her day.

"Let's head 'em out, Bones – time for another exciting day of grisly murders and sawed-off body parts."

"That's an inaccurate statement – we don't always handle murders, grisly is an entirely subjective term, and sawed-off body parts are actually fairly uncommon."

Booth rolled his eyes. "And good morning to you too, Miss Sunshine." He paused, studying his partner closely. "Hey, you look different. I mean… good." He leaned in exaggeratedly, until they were eyeball to eyeball. "Did somebody actually get a full night's sleep last night?"

She rolled her eyes, but didn't pull away – it felt good to have someone this close, to smell his aftershave and feel his breath on her cheek.

"It's not unnatural for me to experience sleep disturbances after the incident with Wilcott," she said in her most matter-of-fact tone.

The spell was broken, like that. Booth took a step back, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "Of course it's not, Bones – that's not what I meant. I just… You know, it's just good to see you looking like your old self again."

The room went still, while Brennan tried to think of an appropriate response and her partner looked like he wanted to climb out of his own skin (not that such a thing was technically possible). Finally, Brennan gestured toward the closet.

"I'll just get my jacket and we can go."

Booth nodded, injecting false enthusiasm into his tone. "Sure, Bones – sounds good. Take your time."

She opened the closet door and turned on the light. A moment passed while she tried to process what she was seeing: her jackets, hung the same way they always were, her shoes lined up neatly on the floor. Something was different, though – something had changed since she'd put her coat away the night before. She looked at the shoes, cataloging her winter boots, running shoes, a pair of dress flats she liked to keep near the door. The rest of her shoes – not that she had an excessive number – were in her bedroom closet. But these had been rearranged: the left shoe placed with toe pointed out, right shoe with the toe pointing into the closet; all three pairs alternated in this way. Brennan took a shaky breath and closed her eyes, fighting the panic she felt in her dreams.

She turned to Booth, who was watching her curiously. "Tell me something about baseball."

He stared at her, baffled. "Huh? Bones, are you all right?"

"Just tell me something about baseball, or a movie you went to, or something I don't care about – something I don't know about. Tell me something I don't know," she fought to maintain a level tone, but couldn't hide the faintest tinge of hysteria in her words.

He walked over to her until they were face to face, brown eyes gazing into blue as he searched for answers she couldn't give.

"Please," she said softly, making a conscious effort not to beg.

"Okay," he finally said, his eyes never leaving hers. "A story you don't care about, huh? I don't know – I just picked up Phil Kessel in my fantasy league, and if the Bruins can stay in the game the way they have so far this year, I might actually be able to afford a new pair of skates for Parker before hockey season's over."

She relaxed slightly. Booth noticed the change, and pulled her into his arms and hugged her close. He ran a hand through her hair, whispering in her ear. "Okay?"

She nodded, but it wasn't okay – because if this wasn't a dream, then the nightmare was just beginning.

"He's been here," she whispered back, her voice raw. "In my apartment. Last night – or yesterday, I don't know. They might have been like that for a while and I just didn't notice."

Booth stepped back like he'd been stung. "Wilcott, you mean? He's been here?"

She showed him the shoes, and a second later he was on the phone requesting a police escort and surveillance, stopping just short of demanding an armed entourage. Once he hung up, he stared at his partner for a few seconds before he spoke.

"That thing you asked me – the story. You mind telling me what that was about?"

She shook her head, not even sure how to begin. "I just – Sweets suggested it. Because of what happened with Wilcott… He thought if you were around and you could tell me something I didn't know, then I'd be able to tell when I was dreaming."

A tiny pulse in Booth's jaw jumped, which only happened when he was angry. He thought for a second. "Sweets? You told him about this? About what happened with Wilcott?"

Everything had taken on a dreamlike quality again. The closet door was still open, the traffic below a steady stream due to the morning rush hour. And she stood just inches from where Dr. Wilcott had been, trying to sort through a conversation she wasn't sure she understood.

"I stopped to see you at the FBI late – or early, Thursday. And Sweets was there, so we just started talking." She paused, honestly baffled. "Are you angry at me?"

"No, Bones, of course not." He turned at the question, which seemed to her to be a clear indication that he was, in fact, quite angry. "It doesn't matter – we just need to get you out of here and catch this son of a bitch so we can get on with our lives. End of story."

She nodded, but couldn't think of anything more to say. They went to the kitchen and sat at the table, waiting in silence for the police to arrive.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Once they were back at the lab and Booth knew his partner was safe for the moment, he left her to her work. It was just after ten – he'd been on the phone all morning, his adrenaline pumping, fear and fury running neck and neck in his blood. And now, with Bones out of the way for a minute, he knew exactly where all that fear and fury was driving him.

Sweets was in a session when Booth went in, giving his most charming smile to the woman seated opposite the psychologist.

"Listen, I'm real sorry to interrupt but I need Dr. Sweets' expertise – it's a matter of national security."

He didn't recognize the agent, but she looked like just another desk jockey, probably complaining about her lousy childhood and lousier paycheck. At Booth's words, she stood quickly.

"Oh – of course."

Sweets got up, motioning for his client to sit back down. "That's all right, Candace – Agent Booth, perhaps we could meet when I'm finished with this session."

Booth shook his head, collapsing in the chair beside Candace. "Sorry, no can do. National security waits for no man."

Candace stood once and for all and gathered her things. "That's all right, Dr. Sweets – I can wait."

He walked her to the door, and Booth sat impatiently waiting while the doctor apologized and promised to make up the lost time the following week. Booth's knee bounced spastically, his body tensed, and he was pretty sure he was going to explode before Sweets came back.

"National security. Really." Sweets said dryly, his skepticism plain. "You can't do that, you know – I'm not just on retainer for you and Dr. Brennan. I do have other clients, other roles in this agency."

Booth stood and began to pace, paying no attention to Sweets' lecture. Before he could launch into what he'd been planning to say, Sweets interrupted.

"And before you say anything, Agent Booth, I feel I must remind you that I am bound by doctor-client privilege – "

Booth went to the bookshelf and ran a thumb over the titles, not really paying attention to any of them. He looked over his shoulder innocently. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, Sweets - I didn't even ask a question."

"But you were about to – you found out that Dr. Brennan was here yesterday, and because you have intimacy issues you can't ask her yourself – so you want me to tell you what was discussed."

"No! Hey, I'm offended by that," Booth said, looking wounded. He took a breath, quickly tiring of playing dumb. It only worked when you had the patience to do the dance, and Booth was definitely out of patience. Leaving the books behind, he returned to his chair and sat as far forward as possible without falling on the floor, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Look, I don't want you to tell me anything Bones told you in confidence, okay? I respect her, and I respect her privacy. But I just spent the morning calling every contact I know trying to get a read on Dr. Demento, because he's apparently been hiding in her closet in his spare time."

Sweets nodded, apparently not surprised. "I heard – I've been keeping tabs on the case. And to be perfectly honest, I thought this might happen."

Booth's eyes widened. "Well, _I_ didn't – I figured the armed guards and the cameras and the wiretaps might be enough of a deterrent to keep this jack-off away from my partner. You mind telling me _why_ you thought it might happen?"

Sweets looked uncertain. "Agent Booth, I can't – "

"Look, I told you – I don't want the details of Bones' secret inner life, okay? Let's just talk about the stuff I know, and maybe you can give me some insight on this whacko while we're at it."

Sweets hedged, which Booth took as a sign that he was on the right track.

"Ha! Okay, done – let's talk about what I know. I know Bones was kidnapped and this guy – Wilcott – somehow put thoughts in her head and convinced her they were really happening. Right? So, uh… what can you tell me about that?"

The young doctor sighed in exasperation, obviously still weighing the pros and cons of their conversation.

"Listen, Agent Booth, this is really very clear cut – I shouldn't be talking to you about any of this; there's no gray area here. What I will say, I'll say because I believe it's in Dr. Brennan's best interest, and because it may well relate to apprehending Jedediah Wilcott."

Booth smiled triumphantly and leaned back in his chair. "All right – hit me."

Sweets still seemed uncomfortable, suddenly looking less like a professional and more like a worried kid. Booth felt kind of sorry for him, realizing for the first time that the doc was actually, genuinely worried about Bones.

"I think it's important for you to understand what it means to Dr. Brennan for someone to invade her psyche the way Wilcott did," Sweets finally said.

Booth nodded but he stayed quiet, waiting for the younger man to continue.

"Dr. Brennan lives in her head the way you live in your body. You experience the world in very different – albeit admittedly complimentary – ways. So for her to suddenly realize that someone has manipulated her thoughts and compromised that sacred space…" He paused again, like he was afraid to actually say the words. "I – I don't mean to sound melodramatic, but the very act is tantamount to psychic rape, in many ways."

Booth didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. He knew this had been eating Bones up – knew something had happened in that room before he could get to her, and she couldn't tell him what. For two weeks now, he'd been trying to figure out how to help, and he'd failed miserably. He nodded, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully before he finally spoke.

"So, how can I help?"

Sweets smiled, thinking the question over for a few seconds. "Honestly? I think, first and foremost, get her out of here. Take her somewhere safe for a few days. Listen to her if she wants to talk; don't push if she doesn't. Show her that if she can't trust herself right now, she can still trust you."

"What – you mean, like out of town?"

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Agent Booth – I mean out of town. I think it would do both of you some good."

Booth took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, considering this. "Okay – listen, and take her away somewhere. Got it. Now… What can you tell me that's gonna help me catch this fucker?"

A few seconds passed, while Sweets stood and went to his desk to retrieve his notes. If he'd been anxious and uncertain before, now he was completely focused. He sat down with notebook in hand, leafing through a couple of pages before he finally closed it and met Booth's eye.

"Well, first, I don't believe this is over – "

"You think he'll come after her again," Booth interrupted.

"I think he already has, as evidenced by her continued dreams and the recent break-in at her apartment. I think they've continued their dialogue, though she doesn't consciously realize it."

Booth held up his hand. "Wait – what? You're saying you think this guy is still contacting Bones, and she just doesn't know it?"

Sweets nodded grimly. "That's exactly what I think, based on my conversation with Dr. Brennan yesterday and my review of Wilcott's notes from previous experiments. The fact that certain aspects of her dream world are too vivid to separate from reality, while – from what I can determine – she's actually experienced a loss of real time on several occasions… I believe Wilcott is very close, has been following her movements, and has met with her on at least one occasion since her return."

Booth was on his feet, his mind racing. He turned on Sweets, fighting the urge to take a swing.

"And you tell me this now? How long were you planning on sitting on this, exactly?"

"I can understand your anger – "

" – Well, gee, that makes it all better, doesn't it? As long as you understand my anger, I guess it doesn't matter if Wilcott takes my partner and kills her right under my nose." He was yelling now, about ready to pop, and Sweets looked honestly afraid.

"Agent Booth, please take it easy, all right? Sit down." He waited until Booth grudgingly did as he was told, then continued. "I needed some time to figure out how to handle this. Dr. Brennan doesn't willingly divulge very much, and right now it's critical that she have someone with whom she can process what's happening. I didn't want to compromise that."

Booth thought about what he'd said and finally nodded. "All right – I get that." He took a breath. "So… What are we looking for here? How's he doing this – I mean, I've got cops following her, guards at the Jeffersonian and her house, taps on the phone, cameras everywhere… He can't just appear out of thin air." He paused uncertainly. "That's right, right? I mean, he _can't_ actually appear out of thin air?"

Sweets smiled slightly, and leaned forward in his chair. "I've been thinking about that, actually. I believe that if you search Dr. Brennan, you'll find a neuro-transmitter or possibly a tracking device – "

"You mean like inside her? Like he put a chip in her brain? Who the hell _is_ this guy?"

Sweets shook his head. "More like a dental filling or something – the technology's definitely available. And if he is contacting her, it's likely that he's doing so quite openly: calling and triggering a more suggestible state using a word or phrase he'd already conditioned her to while he was holding her."

Booth was silent for a few seconds, trying to get his head around this. Finally, he took a breath and blew it out, long and slow, before asking the big question.

"So, what the hell do I do?"

Sweets thought about the question for a good long time before he finally gave his answer. "Do what I said before – get her out of here. Move as quickly as possible - preferably without Dr. Brennan's knowledge - and get the heck out of town."

"And you think if I do that, we can keep Wilcott away from her until he's caught?"

Sweets hesitated, and Booth knew the answer before he gave it – he'd known it all along.

"The level of obsession this man is exhibiting, combined with his obvious intelligence and financial resources? I sincerely doubt you'll be able to keep him away from Dr. Brennan for long – he'll find her."

Booth nodded, his mouth a grim line as he stood and headed for the door. "That's what I was afraid of."

As he opened the door he turned, giving Sweets a slight smile, not quite meeting the younger man's eye.

"And Sweets? Thanks – I mean, for talking to Bones like you did. It's good she's got someone who'll listen to her."

He was almost out the door when he was stopped by Sweets' words.

"Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan told me the facts of what happened because she needed to say them aloud, and I'm a safe, objective third party. But that's all she was doing – saying the words out loud. Her level of clinical detachment suggests that she still has not fully accepted what happened to her. When that happens, she won't come to me – she'll go to the person she trusts the most, the one with whom she can be vulnerable without fear of abandonment or judgment."

Booth nodded. It took a moment for him to actually understand what the doctor was saying – when he realized, his eyebrows went up slightly in surprise. "What – you mean me?"

Sweets sighed, rolling his eyes with a smile. "Yes, Agent Booth. I mean you."

The agent considered this for a few seconds, a faint smile touching his lips before he remembered everything that still needed to be done. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.

"Thanks, Sweets. You've been a big help." He left before the doctor could reply, his mind already racing ahead to the next step.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Booth surprised Brennan the next day by showing up at a crime scene on the banks of the Potomac, where a body had been discovered early that morning. It was a cold day, overcast and dreary, and Brennan was already in a bad mood because they'd increased her security and Booth had hired a large, terse man named Harold to follow her everywhere she went. The only time Harold left her side, it was because Booth was there to take his place. Her home had taken on a decidedly claustrophobic air, and all the chaos was beginning to affect her work.

Booth strolled over to where she was working, greeting people casually as he went. Brennan was kneeling over the bloated remains of a male in his mid to late forties. She looked up irritably when her partner's shadow fell over the body.

"You're blocking my light."

He stepped aside, blowing on his hands and dancing in place to try and warm himself. "Sorry." He crouched down to get a closer look, wrinkled his nose distastefully, and took a step back. "Yuck! I hope I never drown – floaters are _not_ pretty."

"I dislike the term floaters. And it's understandable – between bacteria, wildlife, the elements, not to mention the deteriorating effects of manmade contaminants over an extended – "

Booth held up his hand for her to stop. "Got it, sorry. Forget I said anything." He turned to Harold, who was standing a few feet away looking unmistakably nauseas. "Don't worry, Harry boy – you get used to it."

Harold didn't look convinced, so Booth went over and patted him on the shoulder, nodding toward the car.

"Why don't you meet us back at the lab – I've got it from here."

The large man looked grateful, gathering his things and leaving the scene with barely a word. Brennan watched him go with a sour look on her face.

"This is ridiculous, you know." She was still kneeling on the cold ground, though by now the damp earth had soaked through her coveralls, leaving her considerably chilled. Booth offered his hand and she stood.

"What's ridiculous?" he asked, though she suspected he knew what she was talking about.

"This – having that man follow me everywhere. It's not as though Wilcott's going to show up at my apartment again, with everyone watching me all the time. You should be using your manpower to find him, not hover all over me."

Booth raised his eyebrows at her slightly, which she found all the more infuriating because it made her seem completely irrational.

"Geez, Bones, calm down – we're just trying to keep you safe."

"Well, I'm not safe – " she lowered her voice, trying to keep her temper. "And I won't be safe until Dr. Wilcott's found. All this – the security and people moving into my apartment and listening to my telephone calls – only makes it that much worse."

Booth nodded, and Brennan felt badly because she knew he was doing everything he could to find Wilcott. The circles under his eyes were as dark as her own, and she suspected that he'd lost weight since her abduction. She sighed, forcing herself to calm down.

"I'm sorry – I do recognize that this isn't your fault. I'm simply frustrated that we haven't made more progress."

He reached out to run his hand along her jaw, smiling understandingly. "We're gonna get through this, Bones. Just stick with me, and we'll be okay." A moment passed while she looked into his eyes, feeling inexplicably calmer.

The moment was interrupted when a policeman came over and nodded toward the body. "So?"

Booth dropped his hand quickly, and Brennan looked momentarily confused before she recovered.

"So? Well, he's clearly deceased, but I don't know why I was called here – I'm not the coroner, and there's nothing suspicious about the death that I can ascertain. Judging by the clothes, I'd say he may have been an indigent who fell into the river and drowned. Alcohol may have been a factor…"

When she had finished briefing the authorities, Brennan followed Booth to his Denali and got in.

"Can we stop and get a sandwich at that deli you like?" she asked, once she was inside.

Booth nodded. "Yeah, sure," but she had the sense he wasn't really paying attention. As they left the scene, he repeatedly looked in the rearview mirror, his hands firm on the steering wheel.

"Is there something wrong?"

He looked at her quickly, trying to appear cavalier. "Wrong? Nah – of course not," but a moment later he took the wrong exit to get back into D.C., instead heading southbound toward the interstate.

"Booth, what – "

He put his finger to his lips and held up an index card with the words "Just play along" scrawled in his handwriting.

Since she had no idea what they were playing at, she remained silent for the duration of the drive, which took just under half an hour. At just past twelve o'clock, Booth pulled into a rundown motel and parked at the far end of the lot, away from any other vehicles. He gestured for her to get out of the SUV, which she did, and then followed him to the room, remaining obediently silent. Booth produced a key and opened the door, at which point Brennan could hold back no longer.

"Booth, what the hell is going on?"

A full team of agents awaited them inside a tacky, cramped motel room, with equipment Brennan had never seen before set up along one wall. She stared at Booth in confusion, but he just smiled apologetically, all pretense gone.

"Sorry, Bones – no time to talk to you about baseball, we're on a schedule."

Besides Booth and Brennan, there were five men in the room and one woman, all of them apparently with a job to do. The agent who appeared the oldest was a short balding man that Brennan thought she recognized from the Bureau.

"You got the white noise going, Terry?"

Terry nodded and held up a small device with a red button illuminated. "No one's gonna hear a thing that goes on in this room, I don't care what they're listening with."

Booth nodded approvingly. "Nice." He looked around until he caught the attention of the woman – a tall, attractive brunette who was standing just outside the restroom. "Allison, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan. You be gentle with her, all right?" He flashed his most charming grin, which only infuriated Brennan more for some reason. Before anyone could manhandle her anywhere, she pulled her arm out of Booth's grasp.

"Booth! What is happening?"

Since there was limited space to have a private conversation in the room, Booth gave the order for everyone to hold for a few minutes and pulled Brennan into the bathroom. With the door shut and the two of them alone, he looked at her seriously.

"Listen to me, okay? We don't have much time before Wilcott figures out what's going on – he may already know we're onto him. I think he planted something on you, so we're gonna find the bug or the tracker or the… neuro-transmitting doohickey thing, and get rid of it. And then you and me," he raised his eyebrows, "are taking a sabbatical."

She started to protest, but Booth quickly put a finger to her lips.

"Bones – no time, remember? You trust me, right?"

She nodded after only a split second's hesitation, and he grinned endearingly. "Damn straight you do." He opened the door and raised his voice so the crew in the room could hear him. "All right, boys – I wanna be squeaky clean and out of here in twenty minutes. Do your worst."

* * *

Jedediah Wilcott sat in a lavish bedroom, a laptop computer with widescreen monitor on the antique oak desk before him. Beside the laptop was an additional flat screen monitor, displaying two parallel green lines and a series of rapidly changing numbers along the bottom of the screen. Dr. Brennan might be physically far away, but her thoughts remained with Jedediah – quite literally.

There was too much security for him to risk following her any longer, but the tracker he'd placed in Dr. Brennan's left molar ensured that he could at least monitor her movements. The tracker, however, had been nothing compared with the other technology he'd employed – a thin piece of wire a millimeter in length, with a tiny receptor at the end that transmitted Dr. Brennan's brainwave activity back to Jedediah. That wasn't the only function of this device, however.

Dr. Sweets had been correct in his assumption that Jedediah was still communicating with Dr. Brennan, however his theory of a telephone call and trigger word was archaic, inspired by too many spy movies and not enough imagination. Rather, Jedediah used the receptor implanted at the base of Dr. Brennan's brain to discharge an electrical current – following a purely Pavlovian model, Jedediah had conditioned Dr. Brennan to lapse into a highly suggestible state upon receiving one of these electrical impulses. She would disconnect surveillance equipment, telephone him using a prepaid phone he'd hidden in her apartment, have intricate dreams only to forget the details moments later… even rearrange her shoes in bizarre patterns, depending upon Jedediah's whim. The past two weeks had been, in a word, fascinating.

For the past half-hour, however, he'd been watching his subject travel farther and farther afield. Compounding his concern was the marked increase in activity in Dr. Brennan's hypothalamus, clearly indicating a stress reaction. Something was happening, and the fact that Jedediah could not be there to witness the events firsthand was maddening. Up to this point, everything had gone according to plan: Agent Booth had given him just enough time to initiate his experiment, establish a baseline for Dr. Brennan's reactions, and implant the necessary devices to continue to monitor his subject from a distance. Even Dr. Brennan's discovery the previous morning of his presence had been planned – he needed to see what that discovery would do to her, how she would proceed from that point, and how her brain functions would be affected.

Watching the unusual activity on the monitors before him, however, he wondered if such a maneuver may have been too bold. A moment later, he realized that his fears were correct: he had been discovered. The blinking red X symbolizing Dr. Brennan on the tracking system flickered twice, and then disappeared altogether. A moment later, a message appeared saying, "Signal interrupted," followed by a second message indicating that the signal had been lost.

On the secondary monitor, the lines reflecting Dr. Brennan's brainwaves suddenly flatlined. Knowing it was useless, Jedediah nevertheless pressed the appropriate keys in an effort to initiate contact with his subject once more. Nothing happened for a second or more, before a message appeared reading "Transmission failed."

Rather than giving in to despair, however, Jedediah felt a small thrill go through him. He smiled, ever so slightly.

"As you wish, Dr. Brennan – hide and seek it is." He picked up the prepaid cell phone beside his computer and hit speed dial.

"Yes – hello, Andrew, could I speak with the senator?"

The page sounded harassed and overloaded on the other end of the line, but quickly made the appropriate adjustment when he recognized Dr. Wilcott's voice.

"He's behind closed doors, sir – it'll just be a moment, I'll get him."

The doctor's smile widened. "Excellent, Andrew." While the page went in search of Jedediah's most generous benefactor, the doctor took a breath and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth in his blood. All that came before – the years in prison, the escape, even holding Temperance for that beautiful, short time before releasing her back into her world… All of that had merely been preparation. Now, the game was truly afoot.

"Dr. Bren-nan," Jedediah sang softly to himself, "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

* * *

Booth glanced over at his partner, sound asleep in the passenger seat beside him. It was snowing a little, but the Ford Explorer – they'd switched vehicles back at the motel, then one more time just before leaving Virginia – held tough. Bones had argued at first, complaining about fuel efficiency and global warming and more economical alternatives, but had stopped when Booth explained that it was the Bureau, not him, who chose his loaners (which wasn't technically true, but she didn't need to know that) and that where they were going, she'd be grateful for four wheel drive.

Which of course led to a long list of questions about where they were going and how long they'd be gone and who knew what was going on, until finally Booth pulled the SUV onto the shoulder of I-68 just into West Virginia.

Bones looked around in confusion. "Why are we stopping?"

Booth tried to be nice, but she'd been grilling him for hours and he hadn't had much sleep and frankly sometimes it was no picnic living with a partner whose brain never stopped moving.

"We're stopping because I don't like being interrogated while I'm driving."

She started to say something else, but Booth leaned over the center console and put his finger to her lips.

"Temperance," he said, as seriously as he could. "I know you have a million questions. I know you don't want to leave town and the lab and your work like this…" He paused, realizing something he maybe should have realized before. "I even know that you like to be in control and Wilcott took that and now here I am just taking the wheel without talking to you about any of it first, and that sucks…"

He was surprised that she stayed quiet, those pretty blue eyes leaving his for just a second – which told him he was on the right track.

"I wish it could be different – I really do. But right now, the only thing that matters to me is keeping you safe."

She nodded. "I know that," she said, her voice more quiet now.

Another few seconds passed with both of them close, Booth's finger still touching her lips, and he thought for just a second of kissing her under the mistletoe that time, of how she'd tasted like peppermint and how if it had been anyone else, that kiss would have lasted at least a weekend. Maybe longer.

He swallowed uncomfortably and pulled back his hand. Bones looked at him curiously, not missing a thing, but before she could ask anymore questions, he put the car in gear and headed for the hills.

And now, she slept. They were about half an hour from the cabin the Bureau had arranged for him, but Booth wanted to stop and pick up supplies before they got there. He pulled into a small shopping center, and Bones opened her eyes as soon as the engine had stopped.

"Are we there yet?" she asked, yawning and stretching in her seat.

Booth smiled a little – he loved the fact that his partner could go from being a brilliant forensic anthropologist to a genuine pain in the ass to just being this cute kid, all tired eyes and innocence, and not have any idea she was any of those things. Okay, maybe she knew she was a brilliant forensic anthropologist. But she'd be the last one to admit she was a pain in the ass, and he was pretty sure she'd pop him one about the time he called her a cute kid.

She looked at him suspiciously. "Why are you smiling?"

He rolled his eyes. "I was just smiling, okay? Geez, Bones – relax. We're not there yet, but we should pick up some stuff first – you'll need some clothes, and we should stock up on food while we're at it."

"Why don't you need clothes?"

"I don't need clothes because I packed before I left this morning. But we knew Wilcott was watching you, so I couldn't risk tipping him off by getting any of your stuff."

She studied the line of stores in front of them doubtfully. There was a small grocery store, a Walmart, a shady looking Chinese place, and a Domino's pizza.

"I don't think they'll have what I need here."

"Didn't you live in Peru or something? Spend months backpacking through crappy third world countries? If you can make it there, you can survive with the IGA and Walmart for a few days."

He got out and went to her side of the car, waiting while she checked her reflection in the visor mirror, then looked away to give her some space when she opened her mouth to check the tooth they'd just worked on. She got out of the car and Booth cupped her jaw in his hand gently, tilting her head up to his.

"How's the tooth? Does it hurt?"

She pulled away irritably. "Ow, Booth – it does when you touch it. I'm fine. The incision hurts more – I still don't think it was entirely safe for them to just cut that device out of me like that."

He turned her around and moved her hair to check the bandage on the back of her neck, a patch of crimson stained through. She craned her head to look at him. "It's bleeding, isn't it? It feels like it's bleeding."

Booth gently put her hair back over the bandage and put his arm around her shoulder, directing her toward the stores. "We'll get some stuff and I'll fix it up tonight, all right? You'll be good as new in no time."

They headed to the store with Bones' head safely at his shoulder, his arm around her. He was confident that Wilcott was out of the picture – he had no hold on Bones, no way of contacting her or following her, at least for now. The snow continued to fall, the cabin waited for them, people walked through the slushy parking lot bound for Christmas shopping and Norman Rockwell lives. Bones was safe, for now. Booth took a deep breath and tried to enjoy the moment. He knew it wouldn't last.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Booth had been to the cabin where they were headed once before, when he was protecting a witness about to roll on some heavy hitter in the mob a couple years back. Three things stuck with him about the place: it was beautiful, it was quiet, and there was a stream about a quarter mile away with some of the best trout fishing he'd ever done. Oh, and the placement – the cabin sat in a clearing on a hill, with a perfect vantage of the land below. There was no way anyone would get a jump on him in a place like that.

It was almost eight o'clock by the time they got there, the snowfall steady and the driving lousy. Even in four wheel drive, it was touch and go whether they'd make it up the steep driveway to the cabin, but eventually they did. Booth parked a few feet from the front door and turned to Brennan.

"Stay here – keep the doors locked. You hear anything, you put this thing in gear and drive away."

Brennan rolled her eyes. "Why do you always tell me that? I would never leave you if – "

He stopped her with a look. "I mean it, okay? While we're here, I'm not your partner, I'm not your friend – I'm here to protect you. You end up dying and it just makes me look bad."

"You don't have to get so terse about it."

"Why do you have to argue?" he asked, his voice rising right along with his blood pressure. "Anyone else would just listen to what I'm saying, say 'Thank you for putting my life ahead of your own, Seeley,' and maybe bake me a pie – "

"I don't bake," she interrupted.

He took a deep breath and stared straight ahead for a second or two, calming himself down. It was getting late, they were both tired, and he really had to pee. Now was not the time for yet another argument.

"All right, let's try this again. I'm going in first – I'm sure everything's fine, but I want to check it out, just in case. You wait here." He reached over her and popped open the glove box, handing her a .45 that was holstered and waiting. "Hold onto this, but remember – running is safer. If someone's here, don't bother shooting – "

"Just put the car in gear and drive away," she quoted back to him.

Booth nodded in relief. "Thank you. I'll be right back."

As he was opening the door, Bones suddenly reached over and stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Logically speaking, though, there's no real way he could know we were coming here."

Booth smiled at her, reminded suddenly that his partner had actually been through something here. He turned to her, looking her in the eye seriously.

"It's just a precaution, Bones – that's it. I'll be fine."

She dropped her hand quickly, like she was embarrassed for showing any weakness. And maybe the moment required more time or more finesse, but he honestly really did have to pee. He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, drew his gun, and went inside.

As soon as Booth had disappeared into the cabin, Brennan began counting seconds – something she'd done as a child to make the time pass more quickly. Of course, she realized that it was impossible to actually accelerate the passage of time – but it felt as though it was moving more quickly, which was what mattered. She noted that it was very pretty here, with snow and ice covered evergreens along the drive, leading to a modest single-story cabin overlooking the valley below. The cabin had large picture windows, which meant she could track Booth's progress inside, and an expansive deck with a wooden swing that – even from a distance – showed excellent craftsmanship.

The back of her neck throbbed from where that woman – Allison, Brennan thought with undeniable distaste – cut the device out, dropping it into an evidence jar as though it was nothing of any real consequence. Her jaw ached and she noticed that the left side of her face had swollen slightly, from the removal of Dr. Wilcott's tracking device. Another piece of her, dropped into an evidence jar, sealed, and forgotten. But she didn't really want to think about any of that. She returned to her counting, moving her hand closer to the gun Booth had left for her. Just in case.

After what seemed like much longer but was in fact only four hundred and thirty-six seconds, the front door opened and Booth grinned at her from the doorway before he jogged back through the snow to the car. He was not alone, however.

Brennan got out of the car, pulling her new jacket around herself a little more tightly when the cold air and colder snowflakes touched her face. She stretched her back, feeling inexplicably lighter, and couldn't help but smile at Booth's companion, a beautiful German shepherd with serious eyes and a long, dark coat.

"That's a dog," she said, which she realized was a ridiculously obvious thing to say.

He turned around as though he hadn't known he was being followed, and even though she knew he was pretending, she felt a childish urge to laugh at his show.

"Hey! Where'd you come from?" he asked the dog, who abandoned Booth immediately to sniff Brennan's hand, and then greeted her enthusiastically when Brennan knelt in the snow.

"Seriously, Booth – she's beautiful. Where did she come from?"

Booth didn't linger over introductions, calling over his shoulder as he opened the back of the SUV and began unloading.

"That's Elsa – our very own K9 cop, on loan. A buddy of mine brought her by earlier, said we could keep her for as long as we need." There was a long pause before he continued. "Well, technically she's not a cop… She kind of flunked out of the academy."

Brennan studied the dog's pretty, deep brown eyes, unable to resist the urge to address her – despite the fact that of course a dog could not understand human language.

"Is that true?" she asked, softly so that Booth wouldn't hear her. "I don't believe it." Feeling silly, she pet the dog one more time and straightened, raising her voice so Booth could hear again. "How does a dog flunk out?"

Booth reappeared from around the back with his arms full of groceries. "Well, Elsa here has a nasty habit of turning tail and running at the first hint of danger."

"Well, that's just common sense," Brennan said indignantly. "There's a reason it's called fight or flight, and in most scenarios it truly is more logical to run from danger than to stay and ultimately lose in battle. That just means in all likelihood she's more intelligent than those other dogs."

Booth raised his eyebrows at her, as though she'd just said something significant. She thought about the statement for a moment before she realized her seeming inconsistency, then added defensively, "I never said that it was logical for me to stay with you if you were in danger – in fact, I recognize that it's highly illogical."

"Well, from here on out I want you to take a cue from Elsa here, and do the logical thing. You two can hit the road together if anything happens, and leave me to do the fighting."

Before she could argue about how misogynistic and illogical _he _was being, he nodded toward the back of the SUV.

"Now, how about you stop arguing with everything I say and help me get this stuff inside. It's freezing out here."

The cabin was surprisingly homey, with natural wood beams and large windows, a spacious sitting room, and two bedrooms at the back. The bathroom was somewhat cramped, Brennan noted, but she was grateful for the indoor plumbing. The kitchen was utilitarian but certainly sufficient, separated from the sitting room by a small bar.

Once the car was unloaded and they were inside, Booth surveyed the bags of groceries and clothes they'd set on the floor, then looked at Brennan with what seemed like admiration.

"What?" she asked warily.

"It only took one trip for us to get everything inside."

She nodded, clearly missing the point. "Yes. Why is that relevant?"

"Well… I mean, a lot of women in your situation – strange place, no clothes of their own, no groceries… They might've gone a little nuts in the stores. But you really know how to shop: three bags, we're in, we're out. Impressive."

Brennan considered this as she helped him carry the groceries to the kitchen. "I don't enjoy shopping – I've never understood people who do. Artificial lighting, stagnant air, too many people… I don't find it at all relaxing."

"And by people, you mean women. Women enjoy shopping – men don't. That's a fact."

She stared at him. "I know lots of men who enjoy shopping."

He snorted. "You know lots of _gay_ men who enjoy shopping. No straight guy likes to shop."

"Sully liked to shop," she said, to which he merely rolled his eyes. She waited for him to pursue the argument further, but he didn't.

A few seconds later, after she thought the subject had been dropped, he said, "Well, you got the job done – that's all that matters in my book." He looked at the bags reflectively for a moment. "I still say you could've gotten everything you needed at Walmart, though. No need to traipse all over town looking for a thrift store."

"Every time I wore those clothes, I would have been picturing children in impoverished nations working under reprehensible conditions. Just their labor practices within this country should be – " her voice rose, taking on that defensive edge once more.

Booth held up his hand. "All right, I got it – spare me the lecture."

"Besides, I didn't hear you complaining when you found those jeans, or that shirt – or the jacket. And the shoes. Frankly, you seemed to enjoy the whole thrift store experience a lot more than I did – maybe there's something I don't know about you."

The banter continued on into the evening as they settled in, putting away groceries and claiming spaces, starting up the fireplace and setting blankets against doors and windows to keep out the chill night air. At just after midnight, too exhausted to be concerned about nightmares or their meanings, Brennan collapsed in a surprisingly comfortable double bed in the bedroom she'd claimed. Despite having a second bedroom available to him, Booth had insisted on sleeping on the couch; she could hear him walking around outside her door, checking windows and doors in an effort to keep her safe. Beside the bed, Elsa whimpered slightly – Brennan turned on the bedside lamp to find the dog sitting up gazing at her unhappily.

"You're supposed to sleep on the floor," she said. "Maintaining boundaries is important in any human-animal relationship." She'd read that somewhere, though she couldn't remember where. Elsa didn't seem impressed, laying her pretty muzzle on Brennan's bedspread with a sigh.

"Fine," Brennan acquiesced after only a moment's hesitation. "But just for tonight, because it's cold. After that, we'll get you a dog bed."

Brennan patted the side of the bed encouragingly, and Elsa hopped up without hesitation. A moment later, the dog was stretched out lengthwise beside her – within minutes, both Brennan and her new companion were sound asleep.

* * *

The warmth in Jedediah's blood – that sweet, low hum of anticipation – had not dissipated. He'd spent the bulk of the day on the phone with old contacts – wealthy individuals who either owed him their lives, or at least believed they did. It was amazing, Jedediah reflected, what one would do if one believed one's life hung in the balance. During his time working in Brooklyn, his highly controversial experiments had saved not only the wife of the senator with whom he'd spoken previously, but also a well known Californian entrepreneur, an Asian venture capitalist, and a very wealthy writer from Australia, among others. One could wait years for clinical trials and bureaucratic red tape, or one could go directly to the source and have a visionary like Dr. Jedediah Wilcott perform miracles.

Of course, there had been casualties – that was the inevitable price for these types of services. For the most part, his procedures were perfected on indigents whose names he never learned and whose role in his work would forever go unsung. Working outside the boundaries of mainstream medicine, however, there were no guarantees. His clients went under the knife fully aware of the risks – they were dying, that was the reason they sought Jedediah in the first place. Malpractice was not an issue in Jedediah's kind of business – his patients would either die reasonably quickly at his hand, or they would die slowly and painfully, usually within weeks of seeking his help.

He was convinced that his work with Dr. Brennan would one day transform him from a man condemned by the mainstream, to a scientist whose work would go down in the annals of medical history. Of course, he would need to find her first. The first day that she'd gone missing brought no leads, despite Jedediah's many contacts in the world of intelligence. The doctor did not despair, however. He'd waited five years, another five wouldn't kill him – though he knew that kind of patience wouldn't be necessary. If he was unable to find her (a possibility he considered highly unlikely), then he would simply wait. Eventually, Dr. Brennan would return to the Jeffersonian. They would begin anew.

What intrigued him was the idea that Agent Booth was in all likelihood with her now. Wherever they might be, they were together – to study the pair in a controlled setting, to watch the way Brennan's beautiful brain lit up when her agent was nearby… The thought sent a fresh thrill through him.

And so, Jedediah remained in his suite and persisted with his phone calls. On day two, he received his first lead – from the senator, who was close friends with the director of the secret service, who in turn had a friend in witness protection, who thought they'd heard from a friend of a friend… Jedediah kept his cell phone close by and his search engine running overtime. He imagined himself as a wolf on the hunt, loping with endless patience over the terrain, his senses alive.

He had the scent.

* * *

For two days, life was peaceful – they slept, they ate, Bones complained about how bored she was, Booth watched the windows… It was a little dull, but nothing too dire. And after the last couple of weeks, Booth figured his partner could stand dull for a while.

The first day had been fine, because Bones mostly slept. Knowing her the way he did, Booth figured it must've been a month of Sundays since Bones slept a day away, so he wasn't too worried. Sure enough, by day two she'd bounced back – with a vengeance. In the morning, they went for a walk in the woods with Elsa. Bones told him the Latin names for all the trees and bushes, and he told her what they were called in the real world. He'd had some field guide training over the years, so he was no slouch – and as a kid, the outdoors had kind of been a safe zone, a place he could go when the old man was too amped up and he needed to get out of the crossfire.

He didn't say any of this to Bones, of course – they just walked. And talked about plants. And waited.

That night, Booth came into the living room to find Bones curled up on the couch with Elsa, reading a book on forensics. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds before she knew he was there, taking in the picture. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and she wore sweats and the new shirt he'd gotten for himself the other day. Which should have bothered him, he guessed, but looking at the way the blue set off her eyes and the collar stood open at her throat, somehow anger wasn't the first thing that came to mind.

She looked up when he cleared his throat, and he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, forcing a lightness he didn't necessarily feel.

"So, Bones, what's on the menu for tonight? I'm cookin' – name your poison."

She looked at him in surprise. "I didn't know you could cook."

He grinned. "Well, I can. On top of being devilishly handsome and a helluva shot, I cook like Wolfgang Puck. So, whaddya want? You can't live on peanut butter sandwiches and mac n' cheese forever, and I don't think takeout's much of an option around here."

A few seconds passed while she thought about what he'd said, before she seemed to make up her mind. She set her book down, disentangled herself from Elsa, and stood.

"I'll help – you don't need to wait on me. You're supposed to be my bodyguard, not my slave."

Booth shrugged. "Whatever you say – the more hands on deck, the better."

The day before, Brennan had found an old record player in her bedroom closet, so they'd set that up on the bar with a pile of musty records that probably hadn't been played in twenty years. Booth told her she was in charge of picking out the music, and went to the refrigerator to figure out what to cook. It was true: he did like cooking, but unfortunately Bones – as a damned vegetarian – wouldn't eat most of the stuff he knew how to make. So, he'd have to get creative.

After a good five minutes with his head in the pantry and still no music, he almost laughed out loud at what she finally decided on: Tijuana Christmas. The woman never failed to surprise him, he'd give her that much.

After some thought, he settled on eggplant parmesan for dinner – he figured it wasn't too different from the chicken parm he prided himself on, and set to work. Bones made the salad; there were a few times when it definitely seemed like there were too many cooks in the kitchen, but they managed to make it out alive. Within an hour, they were seated at a shaky looking card table in the living room with Elsa drooling at Bones' feet.

They'd had plenty of meals together over the years, so there really wasn't any reason this one should be different. Except that he had cooked, which had never happened before. And they were alone in a cabin in the woods, a fire crackling in the fireplace and Bones wearing his shirt and no real cases to talk about between them. Bones had found the card table in one of the bedrooms, so she'd set that using a sheet as a tablecloth and a couple of candles in jelly glasses for lighting. The dishes were mismatched, the music was terrible (Bones seemed to have some morbid attachment to Tijuana Christmas, and refused to change it), but Booth kind of felt like he'd never had a better dinner.

When they were finished and he'd had some time to digest, Booth got up and started clearing the table. Bones followed him into the kitchen as soon as she realized what he was doing.

"You don't need to do that – I'll do the dishes."

He looked up from the sink, already filling with soapy water. "I'll wash, you dry. And no offense because Tijuana Christmas is very… festive, but you've gotta pick something else or I'm taking over music duty."

"It does get somewhat repetitive, doesn't it?"

He gave her a look. "I'm gonna have Las Mananitas in my head for the _rest _of my life, Bones. Yeah, it gets repetitive."

She went over to the records and looked through, raising her voice to be heard over the running water. "You know, you tend to overuse hyperbole when you're irritated – I never noticed it before."

He rolled his eyes but before he could comment, the music started up again. At her choice, he grinned outright.

"_Nice_, Bones – I didn't peg you for a Neil Diamond fan."

It was Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show, something he hadn't heard for years. Bones kind of danced into the kitchen – well, didn't dance, but there was a definite rhythmic bounce to her step – and stood beside him at the sink. He handed her a dish towel, both of them moving a little to the music, and set to work on the stack of dirty pots and pans.

There was a few minutes of silence, just the sound of dishes clanking together and Booth's hands splashing in the warm, sudsy water, before Bones spoke again.

"My father used to play this when I was little. He and my mother would cook together, and sometimes they'd dance in the kitchen – Russ and I would watch, and I remember thinking…"

She was close enough that he could feel where they touched arms, her body heat warming him. He turned slightly so he could see her better; she had that dreamy, faraway look she sometimes got when she talked about her mom.

"You remember thinking what?" he pushed a little, and she rolled her eyes – he thought he could even see a blush starting.

"Nothing, it's very juvenile."

"It's not juvenile, just say."

She sighed. "Fine – I was very young, and so I still believed in castles and fairy tales and those sorts of things. And I'd see my parents and think, 'Someday, that will be me. I'll find a prince, and we'll dance in the kitchen and make hamburgers…'"

The dreamy look faded – she looked away, obviously embarrassed. "I told you it was juvenile."

He leaned over to bump against her shoulder, just to feel her next to him. "Okay, yeah - it's juvenile, Bones – but that's what kids do. They watch their folks, and they dream about fairy tales."

She considered this. "I suppose." She paused, then clarified. "But I'm no longer interested in marrying a prince."

He nodded seriously. "Good to know."

"And I don't eat hamburgers."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Bones, I know. Why do you think I spent all that time mangling eggplant for you? What about the kitchen dancing part? Are you over that, too?"

The look in her eyes told her she wasn't, actually, over that part. Before she could come up with an argument, he wiped his hands, set the plate she was in the middle of drying on the counter, and took her in his arms. Space was tight, but frankly in Booth's experience, that wasn't a bad thing when it came to dancing. He held her close, moving easily with the music, and he liked that she had rhythm but didn't actually try to take over. He also liked the way she laughed when he spun her, and the way it felt when she landed back in his arms on the return. Come to think of it, there wasn't a lot he _didn't_ like about dancing with Bones.

One song faded into the next, the dishes on hold for the moment, until "Juliet" came on – a quiet song he remembered his mom listening to when he was little, and both him and Bones slowed. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"We should probably finish the dishes," she said, her breath warm on his neck.

He nodded. "Yeah," but he didn't let her go, and she didn't try to get away.

"You're a good dancer."

"Thanks." He could smell her hair, and it smelled unbelievably good – better maybe than any hair he'd ever smelled before. And Booth had smelled a lot of hair in his time, so that was saying something. There was a voice in his head saying that he needed to stop dancing, get some distance, and pull himself together. He ignored that voice, however, and surprised himself by saying, "My mom taught me."

She slowed a little to look up at him, searching his face – like maybe he was making a joke that she just didn't get. When she realized he wasn't, she nestled her head at his neck again. "I like your mom."

He smiled. The voice in his head got louder, but Booth kept right on ignoring. He held her a little tighter, and they kept dancing until the record was over and the cabin had gone still. They stopped dancing, but Booth still didn't pull away. Neither did Bones. She was close enough that all he'd have to do was move a couple of inches forward, and they'd be kissing – close enough that he could see how blue her eyes were, could see her laugh lines and the curve of her lips and the way her collarbone stood out against the line of his shirt.

She was the one who moved. She was so easy to read – he didn't understand how someone who'd been out in the world as much as she had could still wear her heart on her sleeve like she did, and not even know it. But there it was; she panicked. There were a ton of things Booth knew nothing about, but he knew at least a little about women. And the look on his partner's face?

That was panic.

He wasn't sure why kissing him should be such a terrifying thing, but it clearly was – at least to her. He tried not to be hurt by her reaction, tried to tell himself that this was just another weird Bones thing that he'd never understand, and forced a light smile once she was out of arm's reach.

"So – uh, I should probably finish up those dishes and make some phone calls before I turn in. Why don't you head on to bed, you must be beat."

The look that followed was one that he actually _couldn't _read, because it seemed like hurt and then it seemed like she was pissed off, and then she just said goodnight, grabbed the dog, and disappeared into her bedroom. And Booth decided it was official: he would never, ever understand Temperance Brennan.


	9. Chapter 9

Late on the second day, Jedediah found them. There had been countless phone calls, Internet searches, strings pulled, and – let's be honest – perhaps a hint of blackmail, but ultimately it was an innocuous remark by an old acquaintance that had done it. A friend of a friend had a cousin in the FBI who'd wanted to use a cabin up in the hills of West Virginia, only to find that said cabin was occupied. A few pointed questions and a bit more of the aforementioned blackmail, and the truth was revealed.

And now, Jedediah stood in front of the bathroom mirror, smiling at his reflection. The bathroom was decorated in dark marble, with a Jacuzzi tub that he had enjoyed immensely over the past few weeks since his liberation from prison. A strait razor and can of shaving cream stood neatly at the left of the sink, along with a box of black hair dye. For two weeks, Jedediah had strayed from his self-imposed exile only for his soirees with Dr. Brennan, but now the time for hiding was past. He carefully wet his beard, then applied a generous amount of shaving cream, humming all the while. He had an untraceable, brand new van filled with the best medical equipment money could buy, all waiting for him in the senator's garage. He had an arsenal, up-to-the-minute intelligence on the agents guarding Temperance, and three willing assistants ready to act on his orders.

And he had Temperance, waiting.

He shaved off the last remnants of his beard, leaving a perfectly smooth, well-planed face in its stead. Still humming, unable to contain a smile, he rinsed off the last of the shaving cream and opened the box of dye. It was just nine o'clock. Traveling under cover of night, ideally with no unscheduled stops, he should reach the cabin long before dawn. By morning, he would be back to work once more, Dr. Brennan at his side. He admired his reflection in the mirror, running the back of his hand over his cheek. Temperance would hardly recognize him.

* * *

They were dancing in the kitchen – the way she remembered her parents dancing when she was a child, with Booth's arms around her and everything else suddenly seeming strangely inconsequential. It was the hormones, she reminded herself – the natural reaction to being this close to a healthy, almost abnormally symmetrical male was an increase in both testosterone and estrogen, not to mention serotonin, dopamine, and adrenaline. She was a scientist – she didn't believe in love. She understood, of course, that the notion of love was a biological imperative designed to strengthen the familial bond and thereby propagate the species – in point of fact, _love _was just a brilliant example of natural selection at its best.

She understood all of those things. But when the music was over and the cabin was silent and Booth was there with his arms still around her, she couldn't seem to rationalize herself out of what she was feeling. If they just _kissed, _she found herself thinking, then she might be able to prove that everything going on in both her mind and her body was a result of the chemicals her brain was producing. But then she looked at Booth, his lips just a few inches from her own, with a kind of quiet, indefinable smile she'd never actually seen on his face before, and suddenly she knew that she didn't want to just kiss him. And she didn't even _just _want to have sex with him. Not just once. Maybe not just a hundred times, though the idea of trying that was undeniably appealing.

She pulled away – she knew that. Not Booth, who was right there smiling at her, almost as if he had realized the same thing. She, Temperance Brennan, pulled away – which was hardly surprising, as she'd done it on any number of occasions in the past. But instead of saying anything about it, instead of asking her to stay or intuitively understanding what she was thinking – which she logically understood was impossible, but how many times had Booth come through for her before? – he just looked confused, and then the smile went away.

"So – uh, I should probably finish up those dishes and make some phone calls before I turn in. Why don't you head on to bed, you must be beat."

Which made her think that everything she'd just thought they were sharing had been her imagination, perhaps some residual effect of Dr. Wilcott's experiments. She wasn't in love with Booth – it was a ridiculous idea. And Booth _definitely_ was not in love with her, that much was painfully obvious. She had an irrational desire to hit him, which she wisely squelched, and took another step back.

"Yes – I am, actually. Tired." She backed away, called for Elsa, and retreated to her bedroom.

* * *

Booth finished the dishes without turning the music back on. He kept going back over the evening: eating dinner, and the way Bones set the table with candles in the Flintstones jelly glasses, and how she argued with him about the difference between a moth and a butterfly (Booth stood by the theory that butterflies are pretty and moths are creepy, but of course Bones spent about half-an-hour of techno-babble refuting that one), and the way it had felt when they were dancing, and – finally – that look on her face when the dancing was over.

When the dishes were done, he paced around the cabin for a good hour, and then he whipped off a hundred crunches, the whole time watching her bedroom door. Finally, at just after midnight, he'd had enough. Locking himself in the bathroom with his cell phone, he called the only person he figured could help him at this point.

"What's wrong?" Angela asked, with that little panic thing in her voice that people get when they've been woken out of a sound sleep.

"Nothing's wrong – don't worry, we're both fine. No problems," he said without enthusiasm.

"Uh oh," she responded immediately, sounding a little more awake. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! I mean – other than doing dishes and making dinner and generally being a stand-up guy – "

He stopped, because he could imagine the way Angela would be looking at him right now if she was here – the little head tilt, eyebrows raised.

"It's after midnight and you're supposed to be on protective detail – what did you do?" She paused. "And isn't it dangerous to call me? What if somebody traces this call or picks up your signal or something?"

"Gee – I hadn't thought of that," he waited a beat, rolling his eyes. "What do you think I am, just off the boat here? The signal's scrambled, it's safe. I don't even know why I called."

"Oh God – Did you guys finally have sex?"

"No!" Booth said, a little too loudly. "Geez, Angela – I'm up here trying to save her life, not get my… bell rung."

"All right, then, I give up. I'm brilliant, but I'm not a mind reader. You gotta give me somethin' here."

So, he told her about the dinner and the dancing and the almost kiss, which he thought he understood but obviously didn't based on the fact that Bones had locked herself in her room and showed no signs of ever coming out again. The kiss part was when Angela finally interrupted.

"Well, that's your problem. You didn't kiss her, and she thought you were going to."

"But she was all freaked out – how am I supposed to kiss someone when they're all freaked out?"

"No, you shouldn't have kissed her – that would have just made it worse."

"I don't see how," he said, sounding more than a little pathetic.

She let out this long-suffering sigh, like the burden of Bones and Booth was too much to bear. "Wow. You guys are such idiots."

"Hey! Look, I'm just trying to help here. If kissing will help, I'm willing to give it a shot. But you said not to kiss her, so apparently I did the right thing."

"Well, what did you do _after _you guys didn't kiss?"

He thought about it for a second, replaying the whole thing in his head. "I told her I'd finish the dishes and she could go to bed."

"But you didn't say anything about the fact that you'd almost kissed?"

"What? No! Of course not."

She sighed again, which was frankly getting a little old. "Look, Booth, Brennan isn't like most women. The whole intuitive, 'I know you like me' flirty confidence thing most women have? Brennan does _not _have that. At all. If she wants to have sex with someone, she'll jump them – don't get me wrong. But this isn't about sex."

"It isn't?" Booth asked, frankly a little disappointed.

"No. God, you really are idiots. She's in love with you. You're in love with her. Everyone around you knows it – on some level, I think you're even starting to realize it. And if I know Brennan at all, _she _just started to realize it tonight."

"And she's freaking out," Booth summarized. When he realized what Angela had said, he quickly followed with, "Except I'm not in love with her."

"Seeley," Angela said, and it was her don't-fuck-with-me voice, the one he'd always found kind of sexy. In a totally platonic, from-a-distance kind of way, of course. "You're in love with her. Okay? It doesn't need to be a big deal – people fall in love all the time. The world doesn't end. Sometimes, it even works out."

He wasn't sold on the whole idea, but he figured rather than risking her wrath, he'd just go along with it. He cleared his throat, a little self-conscious that now that all this had been spelled out, he was even more confused about what happened next.

"So, what am I supposed to do now? Anybody else, I figure out I'm in love and we grab dinner and a movie, make some small talk, and hit the sheets."

He could almost see her roll her eyes. "That's sweet, Booth. Remind me one more time – why are you single?" There was a pause on the line, like she was thinking it through. "Just be nice to her. She's been through a lot, I'm sure she's still freaked out about the whole Wilcott thing. Take her out somewhere, get away from whatever hellish FBI safehouse you've taken her to… Actually _talk _to her about something."

"We talk," he said defensively. "We talk all the time."

"You talk about work and then you argue about inane things that drive the rest of us crazy. Just be open – that's all I'm saying."

Booth nodded. "Okay. Be nice. Be open. Take her out someplace. Got it."

They hung up then, because Booth had a feeling he was about to be called an idiot again. And a guy could only take so much of that before he'd start to take it personally.

* * *

According to his intelligence, there were two posts watching the cabin where Dr. Brennan was being held – one a lookout at the foot of the steep drive leading to the cabin itself, and the other a fire tower several miles away. Jedediah chose the fire tower as his first destination, as it would provide him an opportunity to survey the land without being spotted. They parked two miles away, covering the van with brush before setting out on foot; once Jedediah and his party were within a mile of the tower, he sent one of his trio of soldiers on ahead.

The boy was Wallace, a smallish blonde man, willowy and delicate, who'd worked in an acting troupe with Jedediah's brother. The boy – barely twenty, not even old enough to order a drink on his own – was fearless, hungry, and surprisingly talented. He wore bright, high-tech hiking gear and carried an oversized backpack; when he stumbled over to the fire tower – disoriented and stammering, assuming the role of an amateur hiker with aplomb – the agents working above were easily convinced of his authenticity. Just as Jedediah had predicted, Wallace needn't do anything from there – the men invited him into the tower, where his protégé shook two packets of a homemade concoction into their coffee. While the men were distracted, Jedediah and his remaining interns crept closer to the tower. He could hear them laughing; he checked his watch, that warmth strengthening inside him.

Gradually the laughter quieted, until the tower fell still altogether. The doctor heard a soft thud – the sound of a body hitting the floor. A moment later, Wallace's pale face appeared at the door.

"All clear."

Jedediah climbed up to find two agents sleeping soundly, drugged to the point of oblivion. The doctor skipped the multitude of instruments and scanners on one wall in favor of the telescope pointed out the large picture window at the front of the tower. He peered through the scope lens. Aided only by the light of the snow and an incandescent half-moon, he could see the cabin where she lay, awaiting his return.

* * *

He was watching her. Brennan was back in the hospital, her legs useless and her mind even more so. "Agent Booth is dead," he told her again. "Your father is dead. Your brother is gone." He smiled. "Your work can't save you from the past, or the future."

She hated the fog – more than anything else, she hated the fact that she couldn't make her brain process things the way they should be processed. Left to right, top to bottom, one problem at a time. The world kept shifting; she was on a playground, in her parent's bedroom, at the foster home, in school, overseas… Things shifted so quickly that she found herself getting dizzy, the only constant Jedediah Wilcott's face.

She hated that face.

He came to her with someone beside him, and it took her some time to figure out that it was Booth. Except that it wasn't Booth – it was a dead Booth, in the final stages of decomposition, and though she had never once been revolted by the sight of a dead body, this made her feel ill. But then the decomposition process seemed to reverse itself before her eyes, so that a moment later a fully revitalized Booth stood before her, talking to her as though nothing was wrong. Wilcott was gone. Everything was fine.

"I still can't move my legs," she said.

He smiled at her strangely. "You never could."

And once more, she couldn't remember what was real and what wasn't – couldn't make her mind focus on the details enough to work out the puzzle.

"But my work… I can't figure out what's happening."

"Your work was the dream. Let's talk about something else."

She stared at him. "We don't do that. Tell me what happened, I'll solve the case. I don't remember which part's real."

Booth disappeared. The room disappeared. They were back in the hospital, Wilcott standing over her with a scalpel.

"I am the only real part of this equation." He leaned closer, until she could feel his breath at the back of her neck. "I'll be with you until the end."

* * *

It was just after three when Booth heard her scream. He'd finally fallen to sleep a couple of hours before, draped on the couch with his gun close by and his cell phone on the coffee table. The gun was in hand and he was on his feet seconds later, trying to reorient himself. The dog wasn't barking. There was no other sound coming from the bedroom. No one had called – either from the fire tower or the lookout down the hill.

He went to the bedroom door and knocked softly, not wanting to wake her if it had only been a dream.

"Bones? I thought I heard something – everything okay?"

He pushed the door open slightly, his gun at the ready, only to find her sitting up in bed with every light in the room on. Her hair was loose around her bare shoulders, her eyes rimmed with red, tears still streaking her cheeks.

"Are you okay? I thought I heard you yell."

One look at her told him she definitely wasn't okay, but it was also pretty clear that this wasn't the kind of thing his gun would be much help with. He holstered his weapon and came into the room, sitting down at the edge of the bed.

"It was just a dream," she said, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than Booth. She wiped her tears self consciously, sitting carefully apart from him.

It took him a few seconds before he could come up with anything resembling a solution.

"When Parker has bad dreams, I make him warm milk – my mom used to do it for me. You want some?"

She made a face, looking almost like herself. "That sounds terrible."

He tried to keep from arguing with her. "Okay, so no warm milk – what about some tea? I think there's some chamomile in the pantry." God, if the old man could see him now – he'd probably get at least a boot in the ass for that one. Real men didn't even know where the pantry was, let alone that there was chamomile there.

It didn't matter, though, because Bones liked the idea. "I find chamomile very soothing," she said, and she looked a little more relaxed at the thought.

When he came back a few minutes later, she was still staring into space with all the lights on. He turned off the overhead and, after only a second of thinking it through, sat down beside her on the bed.

"Here – push over."

She didn't argue, taking her tea and moving a little farther to the left so Booth would have room. Elsa definitely looked pissed – she waited a few seconds to see if Booth was leaving anytime soon, then gave a big sigh and hopped off the bed. Bones watched her head for the living room, but she didn't say anything.

They were alone. Bones was underneath the blankets, but she was still shivering. She wore a tank top, goose bumps standing up on her arms and – if he'd noticed that kind of thing, which he definitely did not – the outline of her breasts clear through the shirt.

"You wanna talk about your dream?" he asked, but she just shook her head.

Another few seconds of silence passed, while she sat shivering and drinking her tea, and he just sat shivering. Finally, she seemed to realize that he was wearing only a t-shirt and sweats.

"You're cold," she said, like it was some revelation.

"Well, yeah, Bones. It's like ten degrees out, and the fire was almost out when I woke up. It's a little chilly here."

"You don't have to snap at me – I just hadn't realized. Why didn't you get under the blankets?"

Under the blankets – now there was an idea. Considering the conversation he'd had with Angela and the fact that he couldn't seem to get his eyes off Bones' shirt, it probably wasn't the _best _idea, but it was still an idea. And hell, it really was cold. And Bones needed him – wasn't he supposed to be there for her right now?

And so he got under the blankets, his sweatpant-clad leg up against her sweatpant-clad leg, his arm wrapped around her shoulders (for warmth. And comfort. And that was all.) She yawned, leaning her head into the crook of his shoulder. He took her tea and set it on the nightstand.

"Thank you," she said, a second yawn almost smothering the phrase.

"Think you can sleep now?" he asked. He sounded the way he did when he asked Parker the same question.

Unlike Parker, though, Bones didn't nod her head and say she'd be fine. Instead, she seemed to freeze as soon as he asked, her whole body tensed beside him. He knew she wouldn't ask him to stay - that would be like giving in. Or giving up. Or something. He sighed.

"Actually, it's pretty cold out there… would you mind if I stayed here a little longer?"

She looked at him then, this kind of gratitude in her eyes that – well, it sort of broke his heart. She nodded, doing her best to stay cool and calm.

"That's probably very sensible."

Booth reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. Suddenly, there he was – Special Agent Seeley Booth, in bed with the world famous forensic anthropologist-slash-mystery-writer. They both lay down, Bones' head nestled at his shoulder. A few seconds passed in silence, before he surprised both of them by saying,

"Y'know, I was captured once. I mean – you know, held hostage."

She turned over to face him, staring at him so hard that you'd think she could see right through the darkness. It being Bones, Booth actually wouldn't have been surprised if that were true.

"You never told me that."

He nodded, still lying on his back with one arm stretched out for Bones. "I know. I don't really like to think about it."

He could make out the way her head bobbed her agreement in the darkness, like this made perfect sense. She rolled back over, resting her head on his shoulder again.

"Were you afraid?" she asked.

He smiled grimly, glad she couldn't see his face now. "Hell yeah, I was scared. I didn't think I'd ever get home again, ever see Jared or my mom."

"But you made it. You survived, and now you're fine – no one even knows it happened."

He thought about that – thought about how sometimes he could still smell that cell in his sleep, or how on cold nights like this the bones in his fingers ached so much it hurt to make a fist, from the days of interrogation. But that wasn't what she needed to hear, so he just nodded and forced a smile.

"Yeah, Bones – now I'm fine. You just… You get through it, I guess. It sucks, and it's scary, but eventually the dreams fade and the Wilcotts of the world get theirs." She tensed when Booth said his name, but that was probably okay. She needed to hear it.

"Not always," she said.

"Well, in this case – he'll get his. We'll find him."

A few seconds passed, Booth becoming more and more aware of the fact of Brennan's body against his. She turned to look up at him again, and he rolled over so that they were face to face, toe to toe, and everything in between to everything in between. He was having a hard time breathing, let alone keeping up a conversation.

"How did you get through it? I mean – when you were there. Did you talk to God? I didn't experience it myself, but I've read that people often become very religious when they believe their lives are about to end."

He couldn't help but roll his eyes at that one, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, Bones – Geez. Of course, I prayed. But honestly…" he paused, embarrassed at what he was about to say, at how naked it sounded. But in for a penny, in for a pound – whatever the hell that meant.

"I mostly thought about my mom, and how happy she'd be when I showed up alive. So, whatever was happening and however bad it got, I just had this picture of her in my head. And that's what got me through." He paused, self conscious when she didn't say anything. "It's hard to explain,"

"No, I understand," she said immediately. Another few seconds passed, and Booth could hear the wind outside in the trees, and he could hear Elsa snoring quietly in the next room. Bones tilted her head up to look at him, and he could see the way her eyes kind of sparkled in the night.

"I thought of you," she said – so soft he wasn't even sure he heard her right. "You were the only thing that was real."

For one long second – definitely no more, probably no less – nothing happened. And then, he lifted his hand and ran a finger along her face, tracing the outline of her cheekbone, her earlobe, her lips. She closed her eyes, and he thought of the times he'd been in love and the times he thought he'd been in love, and how none of those times had prepared him for this.

* * *

At three a.m., Alan – an intern whose letters had impressed Jedediah while he was in prison – left the tower and set out for the woods, carrying a five-gallon container of gasoline. Alan was sturdier than Wallace – large and dark, Mediterranean in appearance. As per his instructions, the man trekked through the woods under the cover of darkness, until a cabin at the top of a steep hill was in his sights. He poured the gasoline along the tree line, as conscientiously as a farmer watering his crops. An hour after he'd left Dr. Wilcott at the tower, Alan struck the match. Within minutes, the forest was ablaze.

The fire tower was now Jedediah's – he imagined himself as a conquering nation, gradually collecting territories to call his own. There had been no time to revel in his victory, however – once Alan was on his way, it was time for the rest of the plan to begin. Jedediah's third man was Lincoln: small, compact, marvelously fit. Spectacularly greedy.

The others were simply pawns, but Lincoln was trained special forces – he was here for a reason. Wallace was sent to employ the same tactic he'd used in the fire tower on the agents guarding the road leading up to Dr. Brennan's cabin. Lincoln and Jedediah stayed to the trees, Lincoln carrying an impressive looking rifle, binoculars, and an extra belt of ammunition. They were on the hunt; Jedediah's only regret was that he no longer had access to Dr. Brennan's brainwaves, to chart the effect of the next few hours on her psyche.

Despite the snow, the fire would spread quickly – the wind was right and the timber relatively dry, certainly enough so to cause the kind of panic the night required. Jedediah inhaled deeply, breathing in the cold, clear air. The night was silent but for the sound of the two men's breathing, hushed in the stillness. He could see the cabin where Temperance stayed, just a few yards from now, but he forced himself to remain patient.

It was almost time.

* * *

When their lips met, it was game over – there was no more fighting it, no more pretending. Booth knew – he knew it in his head, he knew it in his heart, he sure as hell knew it in his shorts. The kiss started slow, his mouth just barely opening to hers, but when he felt her body press against his, he was lost. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, his hand at the back of her head and his fingers tangled in her hair. She moaned, almost purred, and it was a sound he never would've imagined Bones making, but now that he'd heard it, he knew he would never get that sound out of his head.

He moved his hands around to her back, finding the hem of her tank top, and pushed the shirt up so that he could feel the muscles in her back and shoulders under his hands. And through all of it, through the knowledge that she was right there and he was more than ready for any kind of sex she could imagine, he thought that he'd never get enough of just _kissing_ her. It turned out that after five years of not kissing Bones, now he couldn't _imagine _not kissing Bones. What the hell had he been thinking? He shifted position so that he was over her but not on top, deepening the kiss until she opened and he ran his tongue along hers, exploring every inch he could find. His hands ran along her stomach and she kind of shivered under his touch, which made him even harder than he'd been before, and for just that few seconds nothing but the two of them mattered on the planet.

Two things happened at that point, and neither of them were what Booth was hoping for. First, Elsa started barking – not a casual bark, but an in-your-face, racing-from-window-to-window bark, way at the back of her throat. There was no trying to ignore it, no question that something was going on. Booth sat bolt upright up and Temperance was right there with him, that tension returning in a second. He had no time to think about protocol in this kind of situation – he ran the back of his hand along her arm quickly, hoping that that was enough to let her know this wasn't where he planned on ending things, and reached for the sweatshirt she'd been wearing before she went to bed.

"Here – put this on. Get your gun out of the drawer. Stay here. Don't move."

A second later, traveling low to the ground and staying clear of windows, Booth peered out the side of the window where Elsa was having her meltdown. On the horizon, close enough to feel the heat, a steady orange glow was moving their way. Booth closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, searching for the cold, quiet place he needed for what was about to happen.

Wilcott had found them.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Brennan waited in the bedroom for twenty seconds, crouched behind the bed in the sweatshirt Booth had just handed her and the sweatpants he'd just been pressed against. He'd left the bedroom door open, so she could watch him as he ducked beside the sitting room window, his cell phone at his ear and his gun drawn. Elsa was still barking, racing from window to window – when she finally returned to Brennan, the anthropologist grabbed her by the collar and pulled her close, trying to quiet her.

She could still feel the spot where Booth's stubble had chafed her neck; the place where his lips had paused behind her right earlobe – as though he'd known exactly what her reaction would be. As though they'd been touching that way for years, rather than just a night. Imagine what they could do, she found herself musing, with some practice.

After twenty seconds, she could wait no longer. She crawled from the bedroom to the living room, Elsa beside her, and stopped when she reached Booth.

"Didn't I tell you to stay where you were?"

It was the voice he used in their worst situations, with no trace of humor at all. For some reason, his tone stung more than it really should have – she understood that they were in danger, that he was trying to do his job. It made perfect sense for him to be somewhat abrupt given their circumstances. He must have caught something in her expression, however, because when he spoke again his tone was softer.

"Bones, please – you've gotta let me do my job here."

"Who are you calling?"

He hesitated. She realized in that instant, simply from the way he looked away from her, that he was actually afraid. Not for himself, of course, because it seemed Booth was incapable of fearing for his own life. But he was afraid for her, and that was when she knew they were in trouble.

He put his phone away and she followed him back into the bedroom, both of them still crawling on all fours.

"I was trying to call the fire tower or the guys down the hill."

"They aren't answering?"

He shook his head, looking grim. "My cell's not working – the signal's not getting out, he must have jammed it somehow. Where the hell's this guy getting his money?"

She sat on the floor, her back against the wall while he continued looking out the bedroom window. "Dr. Wilcott had very powerful allies when he was in practice – there were many people who believed in the work he was doing."

Booth looked incredulous. "What, the whole human experiment mind control thing? People actually bought into that?"

"It's not like that, Booth – this isn't some caricature madman, he's a very brilliant scientist. It's not about mind control, it's about mapping the workings of the human brain – controlling the input so that he can observe how the mind works in the most stressful situations."

He turned away from the window for a moment and looked at her, as though she'd just said something significant.

"And that's what he did with you – I mean, when you were there? Made you think the worst was happening, just so he could watch what it'd do to you?"

The little pulse in his jaw was working, something she'd noticed before when he was angry. She didn't say anything; Booth shook his head and looked out the window again.

"Damn, I'm gonna like making this prick pay," he said quietly. It occurred to Brennan, despite their situation, that she would not want to be Wilcott right now.

After that, Booth seemed more calm – or at least more organized.

"I want you to get dressed – your warmest clothes. Pack any extra ammo you've got and if you have notes you don't want destroyed, bring them with you." He slid her day pack over to her. "Nothing more than what can fit in here, though."

She tried to make sense of the information he'd just given. "Why do I have to take anything at all – can't we just come back here once he's caught?"

He shook his head grimly, moving the edge of the curtain back just slightly so that she could see. What she saw made her stomach feel strange and her chest seem tight; she concentrated on her breathing and ordered herself not to panic. Fifty yards from the cabin, the treeline was ablaze, glowing pure orange in the early morning light.

"You think he did that?"

Booth nodded. "I know he did. I also know he's not stopping there – he's trying to flush us out, and he needs to do it before anybody notices the damn forest is on fire."

"So whatever's going to happen, it'll happen soon."

He nodded. "Get your stuff and let's go. We need to get to the car and get the hell out of here."

Two minutes later, Brennan was crouched at the front door beside Booth, Elsa's leash clutched tightly in her hand. She carried the backpack Booth had chosen, filled with a book of notes and a primitive first aid kit she'd grabbed from the bathroom, acting on impulse. Booth had his hand on the doorknob, and Brennan heard the sound before she saw anything – the sound of breaking glass from the back of the cabin, then a moment of silence. She grabbed Booth's arm, her heart pounding; Elsa began barking and an instant later there was a small explosion in the back bedroom. With that explosion came the fire – a bomb, Brennan realized. Small enough not to risk killing them, but enough to force them out of the cabin and into the open.

The fire alarm sounded shrilly, and Elsa's barking escalated.

"Damn it, Bones, you've gotta shut her up."

Brennan wrapped her hand around Elsa's muzzle; she could feel the dog shaking, clearly terrified. "Sssh," she whispered. "It's okay, Elsie." The dog whimpered, but stopped barking.

When Elsa had stopped, Booth looked at Bones with a question in his eyes. "You ready for this?"

She nodded, though she didn't feel at all ready. "When you say the word, Elsa and I run to the woodpile. We wait there for you."

Booth nodded. "Right. Then you make a break for the car – you get in, start her up, and you drive away."

"With you."

That pulse ticked in his jaw again, and he swallowed hard. "Or without me, if it comes to that." He looked at her seriously. "Bones, I'm not kidding around here – if something happens, you go. You take Elsa and you drive into town and get help."

She wasn't breathing the way she should, she realized. She should take deep breaths, she should be focused. She should not be afraid, because Booth wasn't. But she was terrified; smoke had filled the cabin, both fire alarms now blaring, and she couldn't tell any longer who was trembling more – her or Elsa. She felt a tear slide down her cheek, but she nodded.

"Okay. I'm ready."

He gave her a tremulous smile – meant to be encouraging, she was sure, but she couldn't seem to get beyond his brown eyes, couldn't stop thinking of the way his lips had tasted or how she didn't want tonight to be the last time she felt his hands on her skin.

"All right. Here we go."

He opened the door.

* * *

As it happened, Lincoln was by far the best investment Jedediah had ever made. The man was a marvel – he guided them expertly to Dr. Brennan's cabin, never pausing to get his bearings, never seeming anything but the picture of confidence. Across the clearing, Alan had already started the fire; Jedediah watched it spread along the treeline, the snow maintaining a buffer between the flames and the cabin. But within those four walls, he knew, Temperance would be thinking of him – he closed his eyes and smiled, imagining her fear. They had a clear view of the front door, where Temperance and Agent Booth would doubtlessly appear in just a few moments. Like herding sheep, he thought with satisfaction.

Lincoln had an ingenious little grenade launcher that he was particularly fond of. Jedediah had explained to him in great detail exactly the effect he wanted – a small explosion, enough to start a fire but give them time to get out without being injured. Rather than a grenade, Lincoln fired a homemade pipe bomb through the bedroom window; within five minutes, the back of the house was engulfed in flames.

Jedediah watched breathlessly as the front door opened. He could hear the fire alarm shrieking incessantly in the background – there had been a dog barking, but that had been stilled. No one was visible at first, but he knew what to expect. Lincoln had been given very clear instructions: no harm must come to Temperance, but Agent Booth needed to be incapacitated as quickly as possible.

Daylight was fast approaching; a gray light hung low on the horizon, the flames a deep orange against the backdrop of a pale pink sunrise. Agent Booth fired two shots toward the trees, and was met with silence. Jedediah watched Lincoln kneel in the snow, his rifle trained on the spot where the FBI agent would most likely appear. Nothing happened for another few seconds, Jedediah standing quivering in the cold air, his breath held high in his chest.

And then, a figure appeared. Jedediah caught his breath, clenched his hands. Temperance, crouched low to the ground and moving fast, dragging a large dog behind her. Lincoln held steady, still waiting. More shots were fired, surprisingly close to where Jedediah and Lincoln stood – he thought for a moment that they'd been spotted, then realized that the agent had merely calculated their position based on the placement of the fire and the direction from which the pipe bomb had come. Clever fellow. Temperance and her four legged companion reached the woodpile and hid on the opposite side, no longer visible to Jedediah. Another moment passed, and then Agent Booth broke free of the cabin, moving in an all-out sprint. It didn't matter how fast he moved, however; Lincoln was faster.

One shot, and the agent fell.

* * *

He knew it would happen this way. There were a lot of things Booth was clueless about – hell, just about anything Bones talked about left him scratching his head. But the situation they were in, locked down with guns drawn and fire on all sides?

He knew this stuff.

He knew, for example, that Bones would be safe making a run for it - Wilcott wanted her alive for whatever twisted experiments he still had to finish. So, if he could just cover her long enough to make it to the car, she might be okay. Because, again, they wouldn't blow up the car with her in it because a dead genius brain was apparently not good enough for Wilcott. The car alarm had never gone off, which meant no one had fucked with the SUV while he and Bones were… getting to know each other a little better, so he just had to hope that Bones could get there and it was safe to drive, and she'd be okay.

He wouldn't be. Because the other thing Booth knew was that he was no genius, so there wasn't much reason for Wilcott to keep him alive – and there were plenty of reasons for the mad doctor to want him dead. So the second he was out the door, Booth would be the one drawing the fire. But if he could just stay alive long enough to get Bones to that car, maybe it'd be okay. At least for her.

Sure enough, he was hit about halfway between the cabin and the woodpile. The air was filled with smoke, the fire alarms were going, the damned dog was barking again, and the first bullet hit him mid-thigh and sent him sailing straight into a snowbank. He kept moving, though, because he heard Bones call out his name and he knew it wouldn't work if he couldn't get her to the car. So, he kind of dragged his left leg along, still running, and slid the last few feet 'til he came to rest beside his partner.

"You got shot."

He smiled. His adrenaline was going now, so there was no pain – that was the benefit to a big, guns-blazing shootout. You didn't notice 'til long after the danger was past that you were in agony.

"Yeah, you noticed that too, huh? All right, Bones, you ready for phase two?"

She looked at him like he was crazy, a little flash of panic in those pretty blue eyes. "You're bleeding, Booth."

He looked down and, sure enough, the snow beneath his leg was turning crimson at a pretty impressive rate.

"I'm all right, okay? The plan doesn't change – the car's right there." He nodded to where the SUV stood, about twenty yards away. Why the hell hadn't he parked closer? Had more agents out here? Been on the lookout instead of playing tonsil hockey with Bones at four o'clock in the goddamn morning?

She met his eye, and he could tell by the way her eyes watered and she got kind of tight lipped that she'd figured out his plan. "I'm not going without you."

"Just go, all right? I'll be right behind you."

Her face was smudged with ash from the fire, so that when her tears fell it washed the dirt away in little rivers. "They'll shoot you – you know they'll shoot you, you knew when we were back in the cabin. You know I wouldn't leave you unless you're dead, so you'd rather just kill yourself than sit here and be safe."

He moved a little closer to her, and she smelled like smoke and snow and fear, but mostly she just smelled like Bones. He leaned in and rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in, and ran a hand through her hair.

"I'm not letting him get you again, okay? I saw what it did to you, and I sure as hell don't want to live with knowing I was the one who let it happen twice."

"So you'd rather just give up? Die, so I can live and feel guilty for the rest of my life?" She was crying hard now; Booth closed his eyes and was surprised to find he had a tear or two to spare himself. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, trying to tell her everything he was too clumsy to say with words. After a second or two, he stopped and pushed her away.

"Listen to me." The tone in his voice must have really been something, because she actually did seem to listen – she looked at him, waiting for him to continue. He took a breath, trying to figure out how to make her understand. "This is what I do, all right? I keep the people I love safe – I've been doing it for a long time. What happens to me doesn't matter. You're what's important."

"Why?" she asked, and if he wasn't so damned in love with her and he hadn't been bleeding to death with the world on fire around him, he might've been tempted to strangle her. He closed his eyes, trying to find his last ounce of patience.

"Why what, Bones?"

"Why am I the important one? You're the one with a child – I don't have anyone, and you have a dependent. Why shouldn't I be the one risking my life to save you?"

He took a deep breath, and he couldn't believe they really had to have this conversation now. "Because that's not the way it's done, okay? You don't save me, I save you. You're the millionaire genius who builds bridges and saves orphans and catches serial killers. I'm the mook who pulls you out of the dirt when you get buried alive and orders takeout when you forget to eat. Like it or not, the fact is not everyone's created equal, Tempe. I'm lower on the food chain, that's just the facts."

She didn't say anything to that, but apparently it worked because she turned away from him, got into a low crouch, and pulled Elsa closer, ready to finally make a break for it. Booth did the same, wincing when a sharp pain ripped through his leg. If there wasn't so much chaos and he wasn't dealing with blood loss on top of it, he probably would have figured out that Bones was up to something. But with everything going on at once, it was too late by the time he realized what she was doing.

She had her arms wrapped around the dog's neck, her face close to its ear almost like she was telling a secret – and then, suddenly, Elsa was free. The leash dropped to the ground and Bones released her; as soon as the dog realized there was nothing holding her back, she ran no holds barred for the road. Booth heard a gunshot come from the treeline and a yelp pierced the early morning light, but when Booth peered out from behind their barricade, Elsa was still running.

"Why the hell'd you do that?" he asked, and he knew as soon as the question was asked.

Bones didn't answer him. She just straightened with her hands raised and walked out from behind the woodpile, calling out to the trees.

"I'm here. Dr. Wilcott, please don't shoot. I'll go with you." Her voice was hoarse, choked from the smoke and the crying. "If you don't kill my partner, I'll do whatever you want. Just don't kill Booth."

* * *

He liked that she could still surprise him, after all this time. It was a ridiculous request, of course – offering up her life in exchange for such a Philistine, but Jedediah liked that she demonstrated that kind of loyalty. Lincoln looked at him questioningly, and he nodded his approval.

"I can agree with those terms."

Jedediah stepped into the open, noting somewhat dreamily the look of alarm on Lincoln's face – the man clearly didn't know his Temperance. It didn't even occur to Jedediah that he might not be safe. Temperance was a woman of honor, a woman who knew the value of a person's word.

It was her partner who did not, apparently. Jedediah heard the first shot ring out, and was genuinely surprised when he felt the impact in his chest. A second shot followed close behind, and he was suddenly on the ground. He turned to look to Lincoln for some assistance, only to watch in amazement as his hired gun packed up his rifle and vanished into the woods. How very mercenary of him, Jedediah thought dryly.

He lay on the cold ground, and he imagined his brain function slowing as the blood left his body. When Temperance appeared above him, he tried to smile. Beautiful, beautiful girl.

"He shot me," he said in surprise, his voice surprisingly unfamiliar.

Temperance knelt beside him, and he thought that her face was, perhaps, not without pain. She did not touch him, however, or attempt to stop the bleeding. Another surprise, from the woman who seemed full of them.

"We'll get help," she said.

He managed a smile. "I'm dying."

She didn't deny this, for which he was grateful. "You've lost a great deal of blood. My partner's a good shot."

"You'd given up, though. Surrendered to me."

She seemed to think about this for a moment. "I did – but Booth didn't. He doesn't really do that kind of thing."

A single tear fell down her cheek when she said it, and Jedediah told himself that the tear was for him. But even as he thought it, just before his neurons stopped charging and the light went dim, he knew he was fooling himself.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

It was too easy. Weeks of being followed and toyed with and tortured, and the guy just steps into the open to be picked off. Booth had no qualms about doing the picking, either – he watched Bones stand up with her hands in the air and her dog high tailing it down the road, and he thought, 'This is it. This is the end – and it's not gonna be a good end.'

And then, out came Wilcott. Two shots, and he was down.

"That's what happens when you're too smart," he tried to explain to Bones. Except that he couldn't get the words out right, and then when he tried to move he found that his pants were wet – soaked through with blood. He felt dizzy, so he leaned back against the woodpile to take a nap, knowing that the worst was behind them.

The next thing he knew, Bones was taking off his belt. He was too tired to say anything smart, though, so he just stayed quiet until she pulled the belt tight around his leg, at which point he kind of yelped. "Jesus, Bones – _ow. _Can't you do that to the leg that hasn't already been shot?"

"I need to stop the bleeding."

She sounded upset, but it was too much effort to open his eyes. He half woke-up when Bones was dragging him to the car. "Just leave me there," he said, and he sounded drunk.

"Why are you always trying to get me to leave you somewhere to die?" she demanded, heaving him into the passenger side of the car. He usually liked to drive, but he figured he could let it slide this time.

The world was on fire – that much he knew. Everything smelled like smoke, and he was covered in blood. Armageddon, right here in West Virginia. He giggled, just a little. Bones didn't look like she saw the humor in any of it, though – her hands were tight on the steering wheel and she wasn't paying enough attention to the road, too busy yelling at him to stay awake.

"I'm in love with you," he said, but it didn't come out right. Bones looked over at him, but she still looked scared. He closed his eyes, because he was too tired to try and fix it this time. "I love you," he said again. And the world went away.

* * *

Booth was in the hospital for a week. The bullet nicked his femoral artery – if Wilcott hadn't been killed, or Brennan hadn't used the belt as a tourniquet, or the roads hadn't been clear enough for her to get to the hospital, or… A thousand scenarios ran through Brennan's mind on a daily basis, of all the ways her partner could have died at the cabin. Of all the things she was risking by agreeing that, perhaps, she might be in love with Seeley Booth.

In the hospital, Brennan went to visit him everyday. They held hands; a couple of times, she kissed him goodbye – but the kisses were always awkward and felt unnatural, and their conversations seemed stilted and equally unnatural. There were always doctors or nurses or agents or friends around, so that it never seemed to be the right time to discuss any of the things that had happened at the cabin. She wanted to talk to him about the things he'd said and done, about how he felt and what he wanted. But somehow, every time she looked into his eyes, she found herself speechless.

The police caught two of Dr. Wilcott's accomplices the day after the shootout. The cabin was destroyed, but they were able to contain the forest fire before too much damage had been done to the surrounding woods. The accomplices said there was a third man, someone named Lincoln, but no one could find any sign of him. Nor could they find Elsa – Brennan went back to the cabin everyday after visiting Booth, despite the memories and the fear and the illogical feeling that Jedediah Wilcott would rise from the dead in this very spot to come after her once more. She called for Elsa, following a blood trail into the woods that faded with the fresh snowfall two days later. But the dog was gone.

Until Booth was released from the hospital, she stayed in a nearby hotel and worked remotely. Despite having lived alone for most of her life, Brennan found herself lonely there - she listened to the radio, sometimes even turned on the television and listened to sports, for no good reason that she could fathom. When they returned to D.C., Booth had cases to catch up on and Brennan had cases to catch up on, and then it was almost Christmas time, which meant Booth was busy with family and shopping and Brennan didn't want to disrupt his routine.

* * *

By the time Christmas Eve came, Brennan had decided that it had all been in her head – or maybe she'd done something wrong, and Booth had decided he regretted what happened in the cabin. Either way, it seemed clear that there was no romance on the horizon for the two of them. It really was just as well, she reasoned – it would be easier for them to continue a partnership if all of this was laid to rest. Still, she found herself more irritable than before. She was working later and chatting less, disinterested in the casual conversations of those around her. She didn't like to go home, but she didn't particularly enjoy the lab, either. Maybe a trip, she thought to herself. But thoughts of other countries left her equally cold; she felt listless, distracted.

On Christmas Eve, Booth and Parker came to the lab with their arms loaded with presents. Booth wore a blue shirt she'd always liked on him, and walked with a cane. She watched from her office as father and son handed out gifts, laughing and talking happily, then quickly returned to her desk when she saw them headed her way, trying to ignore her disappointment when she noted that they were now both empty handed.

Booth knocked lightly and came in without waiting for her to acknowledge him. She thought it seemed like there was something in the way he was looking at her, but she'd never been very good at reading that sort of thing. Instead, she focused on Parker.

"Hey, Parker – are you excited for Christmas?"

He smiled, coming right up to her desk, as though they were old friends. "Hey, Dr. Brennan. Yeah – Dad's taking me skating in the morning."

She looked at Booth seriously. "I don't think you should skate on that leg – it wouldn't be safe so soon after…"

She stopped at the look on Booth's face. He rolled his eyes at her, and the look was so familiar that she felt a momentary sense of comfort return.

"Well yeah, Bones – _I'm _not skating. But we'll go and I can watch while Parker takes a turn or two around the rink, we'll open up some presents… Then the little man here heads to his mom's for round two."

She nodded, hesitating for a moment before she reached under her desk and withdrew a box in brightly colored wrapping, handing it to Parker.

"This is – well, I saw this and thought you might like it."

Parker's smile widened, but Booth was looking at her strangely.

"Thanks, Dr. Brennan!" The boy turned to his father. "Can I open it now, Dad?"

Brennan hoped they wouldn't – she just wanted Booth to go away so that she could be alone, but he tousled his son's hair and nodded.

"Yeah, sure – I'm sure Dr. Brennan would love to see you open it. Right, Bones?"

She nodded, though this wasn't technically the case. Parker sat on the floor, and while he was tearing at the paper Booth came to stand beside his partner. She felt an almost irresistible urge to lean against him; she did not, crossing her arms over her chest and keeping her gaze on Parker.

"So, Bones," Booth said quietly. She turned slightly to indicate that she was listening, but kept her eyes on the boy. "I've gotta drop off Parker at Rebecca's by one, but what're you doing after that? I mean, you're not off on some third world mission or anything, right?"

She shook her head, risking a look his way. "No – I couldn't plan anything until Dr. Wilcott was found, and then everything was so backed up in the lab by the time I returned…" She stopped, not sure where this was leading. Before Booth could say anything further, however, Parker had unwrapped his gift. He looked at Brennan with wide eyes, appearing genuinely pleased.

"It's a microscope!"

She went over and knelt beside him, pointing out features on the box. "My father got me my first microscope when I was about your age – I used to make everyone prick their fingers so I could look at their blood under the lens."

He grinned. "Cool! Dad, can we look at your blood when we get home?"

"Gee, thanks, Bones – like I didn't lose enough blood this year." But he was smiling, so she knew he was pleased by the gift.

Parker stood and put his arms around Brennan's middle, hugging her quickly "Thanks, Dr. Brennan. Sorry we didn't have anything for you, but Dad said – "

Booth grabbed his son quickly by the shoulders and pointed him out the door. "Hey, hey – surprise, remember?" he said quietly. "Now why don't you go show Hodgins your microscope. I'm sure he'll love it."

Parker's eyes lit up. "Okay – I'll be right back," and he raced back to the lab with the box in hand.

When they were alone, there was an awkward silence. Brennan returned to her desk to get back to work, but found she couldn't because Booth was sitting on top of her papers.

"That was really nice, Bones – thanks. He'll have a blast with that." Another silence followed, before he cleared his throat. "So… About tomorrow."

She wasn't sure exactly why, but Brennan realized suddenly that she was holding her breath.

"I'll probably work," she said, trying to sound detached.

"It's Christmas, Bones. Listen – come out with me, okay? I've got a surprise."

"I don't like surprises," she said automatically, though she wasn't sure that was necessarily true in this case.

"You'll like this one," he said. "I'll pick you up at six – we'll make a night of it."

She thought it looked like he might have blushed when he said that last part, but she couldn't be sure. After a few seconds, she finally nodded.

"Okay – but only because no one else works on Christmas, so it's almost impossible to get lab results back in a reasonable time frame."

He grinned. "That's the spirit."

* * *

The logistics were the tricky part, but eventually Booth had everything worked out. He stood outside Bones' door at five fifty-two, which he knew looked kind of desperate, but he didn't care. He'd been ready for an hour, and he was tired of waiting. His palms were sweaty and his stomach was doing somersaults, and he hadn't been this wound up about a date in a long, long time. A minute or two after he knocked, Bones came to the door wearing jeans and a red top with a low neckline that had Booth just about jumping out of his jeans. She was putting in her earrings, but she stopped when she saw the way he was looking at her.

"What?" she said at his expression, looking herself up and down. "Did I not button something?"

He raised his eyebrows. "No – no. You look… nice. Really nice."

She smiled self-consciously. "You do too. I like that color on you."

He knew she liked that color - a pretty blue that he never would've picked on his own - on him because she'd said it a bunch of times before, which was why he bought the shirt in the first place. But he smiled and thanked her and then he decided that before he just jumped her then and there, they'd better get the hell on the road.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes – just let me get my coat."

He glanced at his watch, and she looked at him suspiciously. "Is there somewhere we have to be at a certain time?"

"Can't tell you – it'd ruin the surprise."

He took her coat and helped her put it on impatiently, but everything slowed down when she was in front of him and he could smell her hair and feel her against him. He turned her around, realizing that it had been three weeks since he'd been alone with her like this. He buttoned her coat, and she didn't object – just stood there looking at him, and for a second he couldn't remember why he was putting more clothes on her, when all he really wanted to do was tear off the ones she had.

Another second passed. She pulled her hair out from underneath her coat collar, and he buttoned her up to the top button, pulling her a little closer.

"So, we should go," he said, but he didn't move.

She smiled. "Yes. There – well, if you have something planned and there's a schedule, then… we wouldn't want to be late."

He came to when she said that, realizing that he did actually have a plan. And it involved Bones not being in the apartment in about five minutes. He took a breath, getting himself back under control.

"Right. Time to go." He turned and held the door open for Bones, then limped down the hallway after her. Phase one was complete.

Wong Fu's was actually pretty busy when they got there, with families at a couple of tables, though it was mostly just couples and a few depressed looking singles.

"Wow," Booth said. "Doesn't anybody believe in a good old fashioned, home-cooked Christmas dinner anymore?"

Bones looked at him. "Well, _we're_ here. And not everyone celebrates Christmas, Booth – there are almost – "

Booth held up his hand. "Got it, Bones, okay? I got it."

They went to a table and she had this little smile that he couldn't seem to get enough of – like she was always taking everything in, and was a little amazed at what she found.

"Besides," she said once they were seated, long after they'd technically changed the subject. "I like seeing everyone here – _homo sapiens_ are a highly social species, they need that sense of community to survive. I like belonging to a tribe."

"And Wong Fu's is your tribe?" He raised an eyebrow, looking at her over the menu. "That's just sad, Bones. Anyway, what about me and Angela and Cam and Hodgins – you know, everyone at the Jeffersonian. What are we, chopped liver?"

She didn't even think about the question. "No – you're family. This is different."

He nodded, not even bothering to try not to smile. He grabbed a fried wonton and shoved it in his mouth, just to have something to do – he was pretty sure that if he didn't, he'd just start grinning like an idiot.

"Okay, got it – we're family, but Wong Fu's is your tribe. I can accept that, I guess. So, what does that make me – like your brother or something?"

He was just teasing, of course, but the look on her face made him wish he'd kept quiet.

"My brother? No! I don't know what you and Jared used to do, but…" she looked unsure of herself. They still hadn't talked about what happened at the cabin, dancing around the kissing and the touching and… He looked her dead in the eye, figuring it was about time they just stopped the dance already.

"You mean you never made out with Russ?"

She looked flustered, but unbelievably relieved. "Of course not, Booth – that's disgusting. No… I _definitely _do not think of you as my brother."

He smiled, satisfied with the answer. The restaurant was still busy, but it seemed suddenly like the whole world had gotten quiet. Bones sat across from him, her eyes on pretty much anything but him, and he realized that it was making him crazy not touching her. They'd spent three weeks at it – not touching, not talking, not looking into each other's eyes, and if he had to do it much longer something was gonna blow.

Her hand was on her tea cup, and her eyes were watching something across the room. Booth reached across the table and just touched her knuckles with the tips of his fingers – she looked at him as soon as contact was made, and it seemed like she finally got it. She smiled back at him, held his eye, and he didn't move his hand.

"So, if I'm not your brother," he said, running his fingers along her fingers so that their hands were kind of dancing while they talked. "What am I, exactly?"

She surprised him with the answer – she was, after all, still Bones. It was almost a relief to know that at least that wouldn't change anytime soon.

"Well, you're not a mook," she said. Her voice wasn't soft anymore, just very matter-of-fact. He was confused for a second, until he remembered their conversation during the shootout back at the cabin. What had he said? Something about protecting her, but the rest was kind of fuzzy.

Their food came then, but she continued as soon as the waiter was gone. "I asked Angela what it means." She spooned some veggie lo mein and fried rice on her plate, continuing to talk while she ate. "She said that because of the way your father treated your family, and the fact that you were the strongest within the family unit, your sense of self worth revolves around your ability to protect the people you love. She said you don't recognize your best qualities because, in your family, the trait that was most important was physical might."

She said it all in between bites of lo mein and the occasional sip of water, like she had no idea she'd just stripped him bare right in the middle of Wong Fu's. After a second or two of silence, she looked up like she couldn't figure out why he wasn't talking.

"What? Is she wrong? She used different phrasing, but that was essentially what she was saying, I think."

"Bones…" He couldn't manage anything else, because he wasn't sure what else to say. Her eyes widened, all innocence.

"Did I say something wrong? It's not like it was your fault – you couldn't help your father's drinking any more than I could help that my parents robbed banks." She took a sip of water. "Besides, I think we should talk about these things."

He felt his mouth twitch a little at the corners, in spite of what she'd just said. "You do, huh?"

She smiled – actually, she almost kind of blushed, and it was about the cutest damned thing Booth had ever seen.

"Yes. I don't want to only find out how you really feel when people are shooting at us and we think we're about to die."

Around them, people were still eating and waiters were still waiting, and some kind of weird Asian Christmas music was playing in the background. But all that faded, until all he could see was Bones.

"Okay – deal."

She smiled, satisfied that she'd made her point. He checked his watch again, finished chewing, and wiped his mouth.

"All right, Bones – time to go." He scooted out from the table, but she stayed where she was, looking at him like he was crazy.

"We just got here. I haven't even touched my rice."

"We'll box it up. Come on, time to go."

He practically pulled her out of her seat. She argued a little, but he could tell that she was too curious to genuinely be pissed. They walked out with their takeout boxes and their holiday spirit, Bones shooting questions at him – which he wouldn't answer, of course – the whole while.

* * *

She didn't mind that they left Wong Fu's early – she wasn't actually hungry, anyway. She was pleased with herself that she'd managed to actually talk to him about his father, because it was the first time they'd ever had a conversation like that without everything seeming completely dire. When they got back in the car, however, Booth seemed distracted – his good leg bounced spastically while he drove, and he played with the radio until she grabbed his hand and told him to stop or she'd walk the rest of the way.

Instead of going somewhere else as she'd expected, he took her back to her apartment. He opened the door to the building and they went inside, where Manny smiled strangely at them – Brennan would have said something to him, at least made some polite small talk, but Booth hurried her to the elevator before she could do anything but shout, "Merry Christmas" over her shoulder.

While they were riding to her floor, Booth rocked on his heels and hummed under his breath. She looked at him.

"What's wrong with you?"

His eyebrows went up, feigning innocence. "Me? Nothing – I just don't like elevators, you know that."

"You can't take the stairs until your leg heals," she pointed out.

Instead of looking annoyed at her for telling him something he already knew, he just smiled. "Yeah, Bones – I realize that."

The elevator opened then, and he seemed to calm down as they walked down the hall together. She felt suddenly awkward about inviting him in – not that she didn't want to invite him in, but she wasn't sure what they were supposed to talk about once they got inside. Or if they were supposed to talk at all. And if they weren't supposed to talk at all, was she supposed to suddenly assume the role of blushing virgin merely because it seemed as though Booth liked women to play his subordinate in the bedroom? And if Booth _didn't _like women to play the subordinate in the bedroom, what did he like?

By the time they reached her door, she was so caught up in the thoughts running through her mind that it was several seconds before she realized that there was a dog barking inside her apartment. She looked at Booth, who was grinning at her like some kind of lunatic. She fumbled with her keys as she clumsily unlocked her door; as soon as it was opened, she was almost knocked down by a giant, very familiar looking German shepherd.

* * *

Elsa was probably the best part. Well, not for him – the best part for him was the look on Bones' face when she saw everything. But for her, the best part seemed to be Elsa. Turns out the dog had been picked up on the highway a few miles away from the cabin, and had been staying with a family while they tried to figure out where she belonged. She'd been nicked by a bullet but no more, and by now was good as new. After Bones left town, Booth had a friend put up some flyers – the family saw one of them and presto, the return of Elsa. He wasn't all that impressed with the fact that the dog just up and left them at the first sign of trouble, but he figured maybe she could teach Bones a thing or two about self preservation.

After a few minutes reuniting with the dog, Bones seemed to realize that Elsa wasn't the only thing different about her place. Manny had done a great job, Booth noted with satisfaction – the Christmas tree was just where he'd asked for it, his presents set underneath with a big red bow.

"You did this?" she asked,

He nodded, feeling a little self conscious. It was definitely kind of a big gesture. Rather than risk saying anything, he went over to the Christmas tree and plugged in the present he'd gotten her – an old record player. He set the needle down on the album that was already on the turntable, and Tijuana Christmas began to play through the tinny old speakers.

"It's all yours, Bones – the dog, the record player, even the record." He smiled, really letting himself look at her. "Merry Christmas."

She straightened, looking around at the lights and the tree and the dog… and Booth. Her hand was still resting on Elsa's head, and he liked that she loved the dog more than any of the rest of it. And he liked that Tijuana Christmas was exactly the perfect music for them, and that her eyes met his and kind of danced when he smiled at her. And more than all of it, he kind of loved the way she smiled back at him, like this was the only place she wanted to be and he was the only person she wanted to be there with.

* * *

They danced to Tijuana Christmas, but they only made it through two songs before Booth spun her and, when she returned, she found she didn't really want to dance anymore. His arms tightened around her; she was close enough to look in his eyes, to feel his heart beating next to her own, and she thought again of the chemicals that were doing this to her brain. She swallowed hard.

"You probably shouldn't dance anymore – you'll hurt your leg."

He nodded. She couldn't be positive, but it seemed like he wasn't breathing. Or she wasn't. Maybe neither of them were, which didn't seem sensible. He leaned in even closer, and she closed that final millimeter of space between them. She liked that he was smiling when he kissed her. The kiss started soft, but then his fingers were in her hair and her arms were around him and their bodies were pressed together and she was having a very hard time remembering anything about chemicals or hormones and why any of them were anything other than wonderful.

"Bones – can we sit down?" he asked her in between kisses. "I just – uh… My leg isn't really a hundred percent yet."

She nodded. They began kissing again as soon as they were on the sofa, until Brennan felt as though she'd turned completely to liquid. She was half-lying on the couch with Booth half-lying on top of her; he was hard and ready against her, and she found herself looking longingly at her bedroom door, though she said nothing to Booth.

Brennan had taken plenty of lovers before – she enjoyed sex, and as a liberated woman who fully understood the role the act played in both physical and mental health, she embraced it whole heartedly. But now, sitting on the sofa with her partner beside her – the man who'd saved her and been saved by her, the one she trusted more than anyone in her life… Suddenly, she found herself feeling awkward.

It was actually Booth who moved the moment forward. His lips brushed lightly along her collarbone, his hands warm and strong beneath her shirt, his fingers skating along the bones of her spine as though he were reading a Braille text. He was particularly responsive to her verbal cues, she noted approvingly. She moaned softly when his tongue found a spot just above her clavicle, and he increased the pressure with his mouth perfectly – she could feel him smiling against her skin when her moan became a gasp. He stopped kissing her long enough to meet her eye for a moment.

"You okay, Bones?" he asked, a knowing smirk on his lips.

"You don't have to look so pleased with yourself," she said, but she'd already lost interest in the conversation. She glanced again at her bedroom door, trying to determine if this was one of those moments when she should be coy and pretend that she didn't want to do what she obviously did. Very, very much. She dismissed the thought, and with some effort shut off the thinking part of her brain and allowed her body to take over.

"Do you want to…" she looked at the bedroom door once more, then at Booth. He was still smirking at her.

"Why are you laughing at me?" she demanded, beginning to feel slightly less aroused.

"'Cause you're so damn cute," he said, without even pausing for thought. "And gorgeous." He moved closer and began kissing her earlobe. "And I'll do whatever you want, wherever you want, for however long you want to do it." He paused, moving back and looking embarrassed. "But if we're just in for a night of heavy petting, we might need to slow down a little."

She followed his eyes to the prominent bulge in his jeans. She stood up and faced him, moving so that one leg was on either side of his body. He looked up at her and swallowed, stopping just short of licking his lips when Brennan got back on the sofa and straddled him. She ground her pelvis against his erection, dragging her body along his length while she mirrored the movement with her tongue, along the side of his neck. Pausing at a sensitive area behind his ear that she'd noted the night at the cabin, she exerted slight pressure with her tongue, running spirals along the spot.

"Jesus _Christ_," he said softly.

"Booth," she said in his ear, the words coming out in a breathy whisper.

"Yeah, Bones," he said, and she noted with satisfaction that he seemed to be having an even more difficult time finding his voice.

"Do you want to go into the bedroom?"

He sighed in relief. "God, yeah."

* * *

Elsa gave a big, pathetic sigh and took their spot on the couch, while Booth and Bones kissed their way into the bedroom. Booth had never wanted anything as much as he wanted her, naked and in his arms – yesterday, if possible. They hadn't quite reached the bedroom when he pulled the red top that had left him speechless earlier that day, over her head and tossed it behind them. When it was gone, she didn't look away or seem embarrassed or make some stupid comment about her body, she just gave him this smile… It was a really good smile. Her eyes were smoky, and she wore a red bra that wasn't too frilly, but – just like her smile – was a _really_ good bra.

They kissed some more once they were in her bedroom, and then her hands were on his fly and before he knew it his jeans were on the floor and his cock was halfway out of his boxers, and reason had flown out the window about the same time Bones' shirt hit the floor. They stood at the foot of the bed, his arms around her and her hands moving up his chest, and he took a breath and a step back before it was too late.

"I just want to make sure – "

She looked at him like he was crazy, but before she could launch into some rant about how people were animals and sex was just another thing they did, he sat down at the foot of the bed, pulling her with him.

"Look, Bones – you're my best friend," he said, not quite daring to look at her when he said it. "When push comes to shove, whether it's been the best day on the planet or the worst one of my life… You're the one I want to talk to about it. I'd never do anything to hurt you – I mean, not on purpose, anyway." He risked a look at her, relieved to find that she seemed to be taking him seriously. "And maybe you're right, that sex is just something people do to keep the species alive, and love is just something nature invented to keep us in line, but…" he stopped talking, because he didn't know how much more he should say.

She sat there and never looked away when he was talking, which he took as a good sign. When he stopped, she moved a little closer and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

"You're my best friend, too." She said, looking kind of embarrassed at the admission. "I mean – well, Angela always says we're best friends, but that's different. So I suppose you're my best male friend." She ran her hand along his cheek, and she had this naked way of looking at things that always amazed him – like she didn't even know how to hold back, how to put up any walls. Her eyes were shining, but it took a second before he realized it was because she was crying.

"Hey, Bones… It's all right. I mean – I didn't mean to upset you."

She rolled her eyes, wiping her tears away in embarrassment. "If we do this," she told him seriously, "You can't ever die."

He tried not to smile, but failed. "I can't actually make any promises on that one."

A single tear fell down her cheek, but she brushed it away in annoyance before he could do anything about it himself.

"I know it's not rational – I don't care. Just promise me that from now on, you'll try harder to stay alive. You won't jump in front of bullets or runaway trains, and you won't put everyone else's life ahead of yours." She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest. "I hate it when you die," she said softly.

"All right, Bones," he whispered, running a hand through her hair. "You convinced me – no more dying."

He put his arms around her and pulled her to him, loving the way she managed to be both strong and soft, all at once. Booth liked women – always had. He liked the way they smelled, the way they tasted, the things they said, the weird things they did… Men were unpredictable, hard, but women were soft edges and hidden meanings. And Bones was all that and a pain in the ass to boot – he knew he was doomed with that kind of combo. He buried his face in her hair, and when their lips finally met this time, he knew there was no turning back.

FIN


	12. Epilogue

_Note: Just wanted to thank everyone for their wonderful encouragement, insights, and advice while writing this - it's been a great ride, hope you enjoyed it!_

* * *

EPILOGUE

Two months later, Booth jogged into Bones' building with Wong Fu's in hand and a worried look on his face. Manny looked up once he hit the lobby.

"Is Dr. Brennan back yet?" he asked.

The security guard nodded. "Yeah, she came in about an hour ago."

Booth came to stand at the desk for a second. "Did she look okay?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

Manny seemed to think about the question before he finally answered. "She was a little off," he finally admitted.

Booth nodded. "That's what I figured," he said, and took the stairs up to her apartment without bothering to call first.

When she answered the door, he could tell she'd been crying. Booth kneeled down to greet Elsa, then came into the apartment prepared for the worst. Notebooks and file folders were scattered over the coffee table, but it was what was playing on the TV that stopped him. A grainy image, out of focus and off center, but even blindfolded he would've known her: Bones, strapped to a hospital bed, rambling about something that made no sense. She looked terrified, exhausted, wires and electrodes sticking out of her head, chest, and arms. If Wilcott hadn't already been dead, Booth would've gone out and killed him all over again. Before Bones could object, he took the remote and switched off the TV.

"Angela told me you got a package from Wilcott. He sent you all this stuff?"

She nodded, still looking at the TV screen – he had a feeling that whether the set was on or off, she'd be seeing those images for a long time to come.

"He must have had it arranged before he was killed. He said he didn't want his research to die with him."

Bones took a deep breath, and sat down beside her on the sofa. He took her chin in his hand and gently forced her gaze to his. As soon as their eyes met, she began to cry. He pulled her into his arms, and they sat that way for a solid hour.

He'd known that Wilcott didn't just die for her that day at the cabin – Booth was no genius, but he wasn't stupid. Sometimes when he was sleeping beside her, she'd say something in her sleep, and he'd know that she was back in that room. When she woke up from those dreams, her eyes were always wide and her breathing ragged, and he would hear her whispering something to herself – almost like she was running through a list of the things around her, just to make sure it was all real. When the dreams were really bad, he would hold her and go back to the technique they'd used when she first got back: he'd talk to her about fantasy hockey, or the upcoming baseball season, or old football stats anyone else would've forgotten years ago.

But she didn't talk about what happened, and most of the time she seemed fine. He looked around at the file folders all around them, and decided maybe it was time to push for some answers.

"Is all of this about you?" he asked.

She nodded, wiping away her tears. "He was very thorough – he documented everything that happened."

"So, the whole time you were at the house with him – "

"And the two weeks afterward, when I had the wire – he was monitoring all of that. The rest is preliminary research he did on me while he was in prison."

Booth shook his head angrily. "Which is why psychopaths shouldn't get computers."

A few seconds passed in silence. Elsa went and settled on the dog bed Parker had picked out for her last weekend – it was a big, ugly pink thing that didn't go with anything in the apartment, but Bones had been a sport about it and given it the most noticeable spot in the place. Parker had been thrilled.

Finally, Booth picked up one of the files. He put his arm around Bones, and she settled in with her head on his shoulder. Inside the file, there was a transcript of the video along with what looked like an endless digital readout, covered with a couple of wavy lines and notes Wilcott had scrawled in the margins.

"So, Bones," Booth said, turning to kiss her hair before he returned to the file. "Take me through the Jedi mind mapping. What are we lookin' at here?"

She hesitated for only a minute, and then she slowly began to tell him: this red peak happened when she thought she was paralyzed; this one when Wilcott told her the brain damage was permanent. About three pages in, the blue line turned from a series of peaks to a long, straight line.

"What's this?" he asked, genuinely intrigued now.

She swallowed hard, curling into him a little more than she had before. "That's what happens to me when you die," she said quietly.

That night after they made love, he couldn't sleep. She'd put her pajama bottoms back on but not the tops, and they lay spooning, his body behind hers, arms around her, her head tucked beneath his chin. He was wearing his boxers. Elsa was snoring beside the bed. Bones wasn't completely asleep, but he could tell she was on her way because her body felt heavier, more relaxed.

"Hey Temperance," he said, and she woke up – he almost never called her Temperance, and he'd gotten in trouble for calling her Tempe. 'Only Russ and Max call me that,' she'd said. 'Do you really want me thinking about Russ and Max when we're having sex?' She liked Bones, she told him – even when he told her it didn't sound like a very flattering name for a girlfriend to have. Still, she insisted. But every so often, when it seemed like a moment needed a little more weight, he'd pull out the Temperance card.

She turned, and he shifted so that she could roll over and face him. When they were practically eyeball to eyeball, he rested his forehead against hers and immediately felt better.

"I'm sorry about what happened with Wilcott." She still got tense when people said his name, he noticed, but it was getting better.

"It was helpful to talk about it with you, I think," she said, like she was surprised. "And destroying his notes should be very cathartic."

Booth grinned at that. "As long as you let me blow up the videotape like you promised, I'm all for it."

They were quiet for a few minutes – Booth thought she'd actually gone to sleep until she yawned.

"You okay?" he asked. She nodded – he couldn't see it because his eyes were closed, but he could feel her head move up and down against his chin.

"Seeley?" she said, after another second or two.

He opened his eyes. "Yeah, Bones."

There was a long silence. She ran her fingers up and down his arm until she gave him chills – he closed his hand over hers to stop her, but didn't let go once she had.

"Did you know that when you're in love, your brain releases a whole series of chemicals – dopamine, serotonin, adrenaline. Then hormones like vasopressin and oxytocin come into play to facilitate humans in creating lasting bonds with one another. They've done brainscans on individuals after being shown images that – "

Booth closed his eyes again, smiling. "Hey, Bones?"

She stopped talking. "Yes?"

"I love you, too."

He kissed her on the lips and felt her relax in his arms. They closed their eyes, and slept.

FIN

* * *

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